


Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth...

by Punk_in_Docs



Series: ~ Victorian Historical Romances ~ [1]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: AU Benedict Cumberbatch - Benedict Carlton, Actor Tom Hiddleston, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Murder, Benedict is a Minor Character, Butler's, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Courtship, Crisis, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Exes, F/M, Fires, Gentleman Callers, Grandchildren, Jealous brothers, Maids, Marriage Proposal, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Passionate Sex, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Proposals, Puppies, Revenge, Romance, Scottish relatives, Seduction, Seductive Romance, Set in the Victorian Era, Tom Hiddleston - AU, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Victorian, Visiting Relatives, Wicked Mother, Wooing, burning building, chapels, courting, emergencies, expecting a baby, family disasters, mother-in-law, pregnant wife, scots, unsuitable match
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 119
Words: 511,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_in_Docs/pseuds/Punk_in_Docs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Hiddleston AU Love story - Set in the Victorian Era... Circa 1858 to be precise...</p><p>He had been hit by a proverbial lightning bolt. Struck dumb with breathless passion, heady bliss and an odd tingling sensation swarmed across his entire being. He didn’t feel hot, or cold. He couldn’t remember which way was up, and he wasn’t sure if his lungs could be found in his chest any longer.</p><p>In fact, as he stood there, eyes not moving from the earth bound mortal formed goddess that he was looking at. He knew one thing, and one thing only.</p><p>He wanted to Marry Miss Elizabeth Farrow more than he needed to breathe....</p><p>(Disclaimer: all photo's within are not my own... credit to each of their sources) and if you'd like to see the Pinterest board for this story, please feel free... https://uk.pinterest.com/Punkydocs/just-old-timey-stuff/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deranged Embroidering, Arranged Marriages and Dukes at Dinner...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut side of this story is going to be quite eventual, please bare with me! 
> 
> thank you my lovely darlings 
> 
> \- author  
> x

 

[This brillaint audio clip serves as the inspiration behind this story, full credit going to tomhiddlestonsoundsalike on tumblr... ](http://tomhiddlestonsoundalike.tumblr.com/post/112509269026/warning-nsfw-after-many-repeated-requests-since-i)

 

 

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_**~** London, England, April 3rd, 1858 **~**_

 

 

 

 

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‘It is a truth, universally acknowledged that..’

 

_“Ow.”_

 

‘ _rrgh_. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man…’

 

_“Ouch!”_

 

‘ _Arrrggggghh,_ It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a..’

 

_“Ow.OOww.Ow.”_

 

“Felicity!”

 

Elizabeth finally barked at her sister, as her frayed patience irrevocably snapped. Felicity, who was sat just across from her on the blue velvet futon, gave her sister a pained face as she placed her finger into her mouth and sucked upon it, helping to try and ease the wound that she was inflicting on herself by daring to attempt some sewing. Which, as it very _obviously_ stood, she was very appalling at. Libby’s curt outburst shattered the thick silence of the front parlour, barely permeated by the sounds of carriages in the street and horses hooves clacking in the air on the pavements just outside, she snapped the book shut in her lap, unable to further concentrate on it.

“What?”

Felicity grumbled back to her elder sister, the auburn brows that mirrored Elizabeth's own furrowing down over her walnut brown eyes, that were the colour of two polished discs of wood, and which currently sat in her sisters pale face, glinting in irascibility as she scowled at Elizabeth. Attempting to resume her stitch work.

"I am trying to read my book in peace, which is proving to be rather _unavailing use_ of my time with you making noises every three seconds."

Elizabeth sighed. Her usually good nature rapidly disappearing. She sighed as Felicity carried on as if she had not spoken.

“How many more times are you going to lay false claim to the fact that you are able to sew?” Elizabeth asked drily.

“Atleast more times enough to vex you, dear sister…”

Felicity taunted, narrowing her eyes, and stabbing her needle impatiently through her embroidery once again.

Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. Placing her book down on the nearest end table. So long as her sister was continuing to inflict harm upon her own fingers with a sewing needle, and annunciating cries and squeaks like that of a mouse being stepped on, she would no longer be able to loose herself in Austen's works.

 _‘Goodnight for now, Miss Austen’_ she supposed glumly as she put the book down to her right.

Elizabeth gave a long drawn sigh and cast a wary glance in Felicity’s direction. Her tongue had tipped out of her lips as she made her ‘focused’ face on stitching the flower in the embroidery hoop. Elizabeth tilted her head, attempting to look at the flower from the correct vantage point. Only problem was, she couldn’t find the truthful angle from which to examine it.

“Felicity. What is it you are meant to be embroidering?”

Elizabeth enquired kindly, senses of her sweet natured disposition returning.

“A daffodil.” She answered.

Elizabeth's blue eyes met her sisters.

“A daffodil…” She repeated blandly.

“Nessie helped start it off for me, Mrs Sharpe said it would make a fine addition to improve my list of talents as an accomplished young lady.”

She repeated. Her voice taking on the funny pinched and haughty tone , that sounded similar to that of their Stepmother, she’d admit.

Their own mother had died of tuberculosis when Elizabeth was 16, and Felicity was 8. Elizabeth had to endure waiting to come out when she was 17, a year older than was intended proper, but the reason behind this had been due to the fact that she hadn’t wanted to solicit into young men as suitors for marriage without her Mother by her side. Nonetheless, their Aunt Cordelia moved to London for the season to act as a chaperone. Splendidly, she might add. Elizabeth Farrow was considered the catch of the season, a true beauty when she had entered the market for marriage.

Because when you lay eyes on Elizabeth Farrow, beauty was instantly the first compliment you would wish to bestow upon her. For it was no understatement to her looks. She had a very fine complexion, skin as smooth and as unblemished as the ivory porcelain on a china doll. Her face was a wonderful and delicate heart shape, and she had perfectly fine bright blue eyes that many men had dared to call ‘quite enchanting’ bordered by long amorous lashes. Her hair was the second thing, aside from her instant loveliness, that caught men's attention, the most fiery shade of red one could imagine, and always was it twisted and twined away from her face in some beautifully intricate pattern achieved at the skill of her own hands, barely any assistance from their ladies maid, Nessie, and a great number of hair pins. Her lips had also captivated many a young man wishing to take a wife, for when any one of them saw her at balls, or at the opera, and witnessed her lips lavished in candlelight, they would instantly wish to express their desire for her were they capable. She had the most gorgeous set of cherry pink lips.

Her figure too was a fine thing, she had grown from an awkward gangly teenager with little bosom and long legs, into a slender siren of a woman with shapely curves and perfect grace underlining her body. She was also considered to be a most odd girl to be now four and twenty and _still_ unmarried, she delighted in making her stepmother’s nerves frazzle as she would take no interest into the bone bred notion of young women wanting to take a husband, and manage a home. Of which Elizabeth often defended that she had no desire to do such a thing, she had interest in books, painting, drawing and taking long walks in Hyde Park, she liked her life. Why should she give all that up simply for a man whom she didn’t like or even love? Some of her friends had not been fortunate enough to do so, they had been married off as soon as their age allowed, merely for business associates and deal makings. Married off to men whom they didn’t even know, or like. And that was a terrifying notion to Elizabeth. To be bound for eternity in holy matrimony to someone who she barely knew, of course, in time they would eventually warm to each other, she supposed. But to her, that signified that there was a bond which could never morph into love. Respect, possibly. At a push. But she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life, being shackled into a loveless marriage like she had seen happen to so many around her. When she married, she decided, it would be for nothing other than toe-curling, mind-melting love.

To her stepmother, however, this was the height of ridiculousness.

Her beauty, suddenly, became a favourable set of assets once Elizabeth reached a marriageable age, and it certainly was an advantage that her stepmother bandied about at parties and balls, not caring to adhere to the girls wishes to remain out of wedlock for want of a devoted marriage, Mrs Sharpe would especially rave about her to other society Mama’s who had awkward gangly wallflower girls of their own. But she would make a point of trying to accost young men and _finally_ get Elizabeth married off.

 _For what is a woman without a husband?_ She would ask rhetorically, finding the notion of any answer other than ‘ _nothing_ ’ completely incredulous.

 _“Oh, My Stepdaughter Elizabeth!”_ She would fawn, and expect young men to be captivated and incite great envy into other society mothers _… “She is reputed to be quite the loveliest girl in all of London, her hair is as red as any wild flame one could imagine, her temperament much the same, even if she does have a tendency to be rather demure and shy from time to time, her figure very fine and her skin is paler and more perfect than porcelain, she does have a most agreeable figure, I grant you, slender and not without shape that most girls would envy. Her eyes are the most wonderful shade of cornflower blue and her lips are as pretty as the first darling pink buds of roses in may.”_

Elizabeth would cringe and most certainly keep her distance from all those who pursued her as a consequence of Mrs Sharpe’s words, because it felt similar to being flaunted like a prize pig at some county fair. Like she was a selling point for marriage, nothing more. It made Elizabeth wonder if Mrs Sharpe would sooner resort to walking her around London in a sandwich board reading ‘Eligible for marriage’ scrawled upon it.

At this point, Their Butler, Hawkins, swept through the door to see Elizabeth was unoccupied with a hobby, and raising one regal brow at the fact that Miss Felicity was armed dangerously with her embroidery hoop once more. He’d grant the stubborn young miss, she had determination. But he rather felt she should put that plight to better use than assaulting her own fingers all for want of achieving to stitch a…

He tilted his head. _Was that an impaired Daisy?_...

_Never the matter…_

Elizabeth smiled up at him. Hawkins truly was the best Butler this side of the Serpentine. He was a tall imposing figure, a tall man with gangly legs and a stomach that protruded heavily from his cumber bund. His butlers uniform was full black dress, jacket and dickie bow, and a sweeping black velvet coat, often with grey pinstriped trousers on his lengthy cricket legs. His shoes oft polished and shining on his feet. He had a head of brown hair that had now thinned to a ring across the back and behind his ears, and he also a very large nose. But on the whole, the man was a very efficient Butler. Very adept at being neither heard, nor seen, as any great Butler should be. And when teemed with the no nonsense style of house running that their housekeeper, Mrs Briggs, also kept, the house ran smoother than a ship in the royal Navy.

(Elizabeth couldn’t weigh this statement with absolute truth, having never been near a navy ship herself. But she imagined it was under strict routine and great competency, much like that of the Farrow household)

“Good Afternoon Hawkins.” Elizabeth greeted as Hawkins breezed through the door to the front parlour.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

Hawkins began, smiling lightly, there was no need for him to extend the courtesy of a regal bow to the second lady of the house, the staff and the family were of a closer bond than most other people who ran in such lofty social circles such as that of the Farrows, gone was the stiff upper lip etiquette in this house. The staff were treated like family, and never had a cross word from any of those above stairs. (with the exception of when Mrs Sharpe was suffering with ‘nervous complaints’ or when Felicity sought to throw a stroppy tantrum at nothing of consequence)

“The paper arrived Miss, I did enquire as to it’s tardiness again. But the response was so alarmingly complex, I daren’t relay it. As I understand it, an incompetent coach driver is to take the blame. I shall leave the rest to your imagination.”

He explained, offering Elizabeth the thick slab of paper that was the times. That was another thing, it was also highly improper for a Young lady to take such interest in Politics or modern affairs. Mrs Sharpe would oft point this out, But Elizabeth would pay her no heed. Simply listen, politely and intently, and after she had finished her rant and left the room, Elizabeth would roll her eyes, smile and fold the paper across her eyes once more and continue to read about the current affairs of the day. She had done it once, much to her fathers delight when he was sat opposite her, taking afternoon tea, as he had smiled, laughed merrily, patted the back of her hand. Told her never to change her ways, and asked for the business section when she was through with it.

Elizabeth gave him a wry smile, accepting the paper into her lap, still smiling.

“I stand intrigued..” She beamed.

_“AHHGH!”_

Felicity yelled once more, again, her index finger went to her lips to ebb away the dot of blood she had caused to bubble on her skin. Her auburn brows drawn in pain again as she sucked on her finger.

“..And would you be so kind as to bring up a bandage or two for Felicity. A couple more attempts and I fear she’ll be slaughtered by Mrs Sharpe for getting blood on the settee.” She spoke lowly.

“At once, Miss.” Hawkins nodded.

“If I may enquire, what _exactly_ is she attempting to stitch?” He asked quietly in a hush.

“I think it was ought to be a daffodil in a previous life..” Elizabeth raised her brows.

“Looked more like a _singed_ daffodil to me, Miss.” He said, deep voice barely rising above a hush.

“Now that is far too bold, Hawkins. We should atleast give her the benefit of a doubt.” Elizabeth smiled.

“So a _bruised_ daffodil then?” He asked.

Elizabeth spoke through her laugh when she answered him.

“Much kinder.”

She smiled. As did Hawkins.

“Before I forget Miss, Mrs Briggs wondered if you would care for your pot of afternoon tea? I also know there are some freshly made butter biscuits warm out of the oven up for grabs aswell.” He urged with a sly wink.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

She dismissed. He nodded and ducked out of the room as silently as when he had entered it. Clicking the door shut as he left Elizabeth and Felicity alone once more. Or, more accurately, left Elizabeth listening to her sisters whines and cries as she foolishly soldiered on through her embroidery.

But, it would seem Elizabeth was reprieved as Felicity gave one last frustrated cry of pain.

“ _ARGHGGH! CURSED –T-THING!”_

She shouted, before growling and lobbing the embroidery hoop, needle and bobbin, all in one, across the sitting parlour, letting it land in a crumpled heap atop the blue velvet settee adjacent to where a sulking Felicity now sat. She huffed and crossed her arms about her chest. Face now decidedly grumpy.

There was a moment of silence before Elizabeth spoke up.

“You’ve decided to abandon adding ‘accomplished at sewing’ to your list of achievements then..” She asked in her sharp good humour.

Felicity’s answer was to huff and glare in mild tempered annoyance at her sister. Her deep little brown eyes shining in irritability.

Elizabeth gave her irritated sibling that lovely smile she was so famed for throughout London, standing and letting her blue skirts flow behind her as she crossed to the crumpled embroider hoop that sat mangled on the adjacent sofa to her sister, and took it into her hands. Smoothing out the creases to look at the ravaged flower that Felicity was attempting to sew into.

“I’m never going to be accomplished at anything.”

Felicity grumbled, voice so low and cranky that Elizabeth almost missed it.

This caused Libby to sigh, set down the hoop on the low table in the centre of the room, and cross to the velvet settee and sit beside her sullen sister.

“That’s not true, you’re proficient at lots of things Fel.”

Elizabeth soothed, those kind blue eyes seeking out Felicity’s petulant brown ones. Even using her ‘pet’ name for her sister. ‘Libby’ was what she got called herself by most people who used it as a pet name.

“Like what? I can’t sew. I can’t sing and I damn sure can’t be pretty and perfect like you. You’re reputed to be one of the most prettiest and accomplished ladies in all of London. Men fawn at your feet and you’ve had hundreds of proposals, I do the season this year, and I bet no one will even look twice at a boring girl like me. Especially because I can’t sew.” She sulked crabbily.

Libby tilted her head. Bringing her hands about her sisters shoulders and stroking her warm soft palms across Felicity’s bare upper arms.

“When you do the season, I am confident that you will have men who simply _prostrate_ themselves at your feet, my dear Fel. You’ve got just as fine a figure and looks as I have, if not more as such. Now come on, none of that grousing. We Farrow women are made of sturdy and wonderful mettle, it is of no matter whether or not you can sew, pay Mrs Sharpe's silly and frankly over fluffed notion of such a thing being a vital component, no mind. No man is going to be stupid enough to be utterly captivated by your lovely eyes, your dazzling smile, your cheeky wit…”

At this, Elizabeth's hands found her sisters middle and tickled, Felicity laughed, giggled and bunched up, swatting Libby’s hands away from the fabric that covered the tummy of her blossom pink day dress. It had capped sleeves trimmed with lace, and Mrs Sharpe insisted that it made her eyes prominent.

“…and then dismiss you purely on the inconsequential matter of whether or not you possess any skill with an embroidering needle.” Elizabeth reassured her.

Felicity smiled. Feeling more calmed now.

“…And since I have quite the quietest disposition, and the most stubborn ways, it is likely that it _is I_ who will end up an old maid, and you will have your pick of every young eligible gentleman this side of the Thames.” She joked.

“That’s not true.” Felicity smiled

“Mary Rockwell heard from Eloise Simpson from her sisters brothers friend, Samuel Windsor, that he heard Marcus Burke say he’s quite set his cap for you. And that because his Father and our Father are business associates, that he intends on declaring his affections to court you.” Felicity beamed, smile looking remarkably vixen like.

Libby sighed, looking upon the petty gossip with that ever present gleam of stiff affability in her eyes.

“If little else, you can add, fierce gossip to that list of yours…” She said lowly.

“Is it true? Is he courting you? I know he had tea with Father and Mrs Sharpe.”

Felicity cajoled. Not to be dissuaded. Libby learned that her sister was indeed a fierce conversationalist, once she clung onto a piece of petty gossip, she was like a dog with a marrowbone, she wouldn’t let go, nor part from it willingly, or without fuss.

Libby sighed. Truthfully, yes. Technically, if she was going from Godey’s Lady Book of Dating Etiquette, then Marcus Burke was the gentleman who was currently receiving her attentions, and courting her.

They had met at Lady Twombley’s annual Spring Ball, he had been introduced to the family via a mutual friend of Mrs Sharpe’s, He had taken out _three spaces_ in Elizabeth’s calling card, certainly declaring his eagerness, (and that was the hottest gossip about front parlours of the social elite in London for nigh on three weeks, no gentleman who had fear for his reputation took out more than _two_ spaces on a woman’s calling card)

As Elizabeth was a woman of honour, she had danced all three dances with him, They danced the first waltz, the gavotte, and the polka. He had gotten her a refreshment, and returned her to her chaperone – Mrs Sharpe – placed a kiss upon Elizabeth's hand and asked permission to call upon her in a weeks time. Which he did, taking tea with Libby and Mrs Sharpe. Bringing Libby a gift of white tulips fetched all the way from Holland, and a box of Bonds finest and most dear Belgian truffles. How Mrs Sharpe had cooed over those…

Thereafter, Marcus Burke had called on her three more times within the month of May. They had gone for a walk through Hyde Park, and had ices at Salamanders. They had attended the Opera, Genoveva, at Covent Garden. (both times with one Mrs Sharpe present acting as a chaperone) And he had also taken Tea once again with Mrs Sharpe and Libby, with the exception of her father being present this time too. So, glumly she supposed, having met her family, and abided by every dating rule of the age, much to Mrs Sharpe’s delight, and to Libby’s utter displeasure, she was theoretically, in the eyes of society, the almighty God and Mrs Sharpe, courting Marcus Burke.

Felicity took her Sister’s silence and wavering hesitance as her answer.

“Oh, he will make such a fine husband for you. He is very amiable…” Felicity giggled.

“Felicity.”

Libby chided her language and headstrong tongue.

However, the impolite and uncivilised side of her brain couldn’t deny that Marcus Burke was indeed a handsome man. He was tall, and no one could accuse him of having a sly build. His arms were muscled and wide, and his torso was well built and fine, she could imagine. He looked very fetching when he wore his velvet blue overcoat, and his peacock blue waistcoat, with his white cravat knotted about his neck. Navy riding trousers and brown leather boots. He looked rather nice in evening dress too, when they went to see La Bohemé at the Opera, he had been outfitted in a crisp tailored black dress wear. And he had looked thoroughly handsome indeed. His wide build was just a passing ship when compared to how handsome he was. He had light brown waves of thick hair that curled on his head, a wide yet genteel smile, shining brown eyes that she found looked black and desirous in the dark, or the unforgiving shade of candlelight. His smile was wide and warming, and he certainly knew when to use it to his charming advantage on women.

He was reputed, Elizabeth had once heard, stuffed into the corner of a overcrowded, very humid ballroom with Society Mama’s, to favour a rather expensive gambling club in Cheapside called ‘Whites’ where he was heard to have lost quite a significant amount of his Father’s fortune on a weekly basis. Speaking of such, his Father, who ran coal haulage companies in and around London, was seeking desperately to do business with Libby’s own Father. As Sir Richard Farrow was a leading name in the Accounting Business, a Brilliant Mathematician, and often was a guest lecturer at the Top University’s in the Country. A Brilliant man, was her father. Her late Mother, Violet Verina Farrow had been a scholar too, equally as splendid in her field, a successful Art Teacher before she met Libby’s Father, she gave up her profession after marriage, focusing on raising their family before she fell ill. Nonetheless, Libby couldn’t help but feel that was all the Burkes were after, want of a business connection, and if it happened to come about via a well connected and opportunistic marriage, then so be it.

Marcus’s own father was also heard around London to be as vicious as a hunting dog when it came to safeguarding his fortune and money. And word was that he wanted his son to follow in his strict footsteps. Taking a sensible wife and making sure when the family business passed down to him, that it did not suffer. And making a match with an accountant was a wise move indeed as far as they were concerned. If it meant it put an end to Marcus Burke's rakish ways, (he had been known to have spent several illicit drunken occasions with stage girls who were no better than prostitutes) and if marriage kept his gambling drinking and lust based affairs to a minimum, then that was for the best aswell.

“Does he have any younger brothers?” Felicity asked, cheekiness now creeping into her wide smile and burnt sienna coloured eyes.

“Felicity Harper Farrow. You are a colossal pest.”

Libby remarked dryly and with little humour.

At that point, they were interrupted by what was either an excitable owl having gotten into the house, and after flying in the window and flapping about the place, elected to let loose a series of excitable squawks to echo through the hallway to the parlour where the girls now sat. Either that, or, more likely, Mrs Sharpe had received something that accounted for the veritable hooting noises she was now making.

Then, a sudden cooing and screeching manner of both their names being called led Elizabeth to believe that it was in fact, the latter. It seems Mrs Sharpe had gotten her hands on something that was worth shrieking devotedly about.

 _“ELIZABETH! FELICITY! OH HEAVENS MY DARLINGS JUST WAIT TIL YOU HEAR OF WHAT NEWS I HAVE FOR YOU!”_ She bellowed in her squealing nasally tone.

At this point the Parlour door sprang open and thudded against the William Morris wallpapered wall, and the woman herself tore through it, holding the skirts of her beige paisley layered day dress in one hand, but still being a respectable lady as to not let the skirts showcase her ankles, even in her own home. And she clutched a letter in the other. She had her shawl about her shoulders, and her elegant brunette hair which had streaks of grey running through it was piled atop her head, although a large coil had come free at the back of her head, and swung down her neck.

Mrs Sharpe was, belying her name, a soft natured woman, if a little silly and nonsensical about her ‘nervous complaints’ but, when it boiled down to it, she was a rather pretty matured lady, with brown eyes alike that of Felicity, so much so, she was was actually mistaken for being Mrs Sharpe's own kin. She had barely any wrinkles to showcase her age, and a little weight where it counted most on an elder woman. Resting on her hips, thighs and bosom. But apart from that, Libby supposed aside from the silliness and fierce determination to see Elizabeth married, that she could have worse women to act as her stepmother.

Elizabeth and Felicity both shared a feeling that they would need to remain sat down for whatever news it was that allowed her to go careering about making noises like an overexcited goose.

“Oh, my girls! Listen, here, Listen! Your father has a Duke coming to Dinner here! Tonight! _A DUKE! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT! A TITLED GENTLEMAN! HERE IN OUR HOME!!! DINING WITH US!”_

She screeched, eyes wild and wide with the excitement. She was slightly out of breath from all her shouting and squawking. Waving aforesaid letter around in her hands like it was holy scripture, or the Ten Commandments. 

“Oh, isn’t it exciting? A Duke in our home, not to mention this would be a fine opportunity to showcase to Marcus and Cecil Burke what illustrious lofty social circles we move in. My dearest Libby, I daresay this will make Burke drop to his knee this very night to wed you if he thinks a Duke may take a shine to you…” She gabbled.

Felicity chuckled beside her.

“If Marcus Burke looses out to this Duke, can I wed him?” Felicity asked cheekily.

“Miss Felicity I hope for the sake of my nerves and your own sordid sense of humour, that was a lark of the highest manner.” She ground out through little patience and gritted teeth.

It was at that precise moment when Richard Farrow surfaced from his afternoon book keepings in his study to see what all this ungodly noise and complaint was about.

He was a man who was undoubtedly entering the stages of wise-ness now, his hair was greying on his head, and his eyes were often tired and kind. His white hair was just starting to thin on his head that hinted at his senility, yet he walked still with a carefree elegance that suggested age hadn’t beaten him in that respect just yet. Resting on his nose, he now took off his half moon spectacles, and his cravat still looked impeccable. He had unquestionably been a handsome man in his youth, not weight nor fragility had prevailed themselves on his figure. He bore the look of a wise old professor. Eyes like that of Elizabeth's, so everyone knew where she got them from, they were startlingly blue, and his smile was kind and gentle like his daughters was, also.

Libby smiled as she saw his greying brows pull together on his forehead at the noises his wife was making.

“What on earth is the reason for your fussing my dear? I thought we had an animal loose in the hall. I thought cook had let the chicken loose up from the kitchen again.” He remarked with dry wit much alike that of his eldest daughter. Winking at his two girls on the sofa opposite where he stood.

Elizabeth and Felicity smiled.

“Oh, how you must take great delight in vexing me, Mr Farrow. It is such an inopportune venture on my poor nerves…” She insisted. Resting a angelic hand upon her chest, soothing herself.

“I make no such venture on those dear things, fair heart. Pray the reasons you screeched?…”

Richard Farrow asked, easing himself into the chair that was nearest to Elizabeth, kissing her hand as he eased himself down, taking the paper into his hands and placing his glasses back on, to fold it up and read as he awaited an answer from his wife.

“We, have _a Duke_ , coming to Dinner, _here_ , _tonight_ …”

Mrs Sharpe beamed excellently, as if she was single handedly responsible for crafting the earth exactly as it was in all it’s glory.

“Yes, I know, dear.”

Came the response from behind the paper.

Mrs Sharpe's face dropped as Mr Farrow lowered the paper and gave her that gentle unmovable smile.

“You know?”

She bellowed, brows pulled too like a pair of curtains.

“Yes, my little ray of sunshine.” He jaunted

“ I invited him.”

He explained calmly, folding over the page and reading.

“Mr Farrow. Inviting someone as titled and lofty as a Duke, to our home, and not informing me of such an invitation being made, is sure to take a great toll upon my frail nerves. Have you any knowledge of what planning and requirements must be made for this evening? We must have Hawkins polish the silver _at once_ , and I daresay that our china will surely have to be _thoroughly_ cleaned. And I will be _damned_ if the Duke arrives without that front hallway floor being thoroughly _scrubbed_ down….”

She rattled off a whole list of other things which needed to be done all before 8 o'clock this evening, and it was just ten to one now.

Mr Farrow sat, smiled kindly as he always did, taking in the frazzled ramblings of his wife.

“Never fear my darling, Sir Thomas Kenworthy does not use his title here in town, He is a business associate whom I have dealt with many times before, and would not expect such outlandish devotion to his title. He insists we must treat him like any other humble guest.” He informed.

“I think you’ll like him, Libby…”

At her name, she turned to face her father. A gentle smile on his lips.

“He reminds me a great deal of you, The man would do well to take a shine to you, my dear. He is of a very similar temperament. Gentle, good natured, patient, A handsome fellow, I daresay..”

His eyebrows raised up his head and Libby found herself gently rolling her eyes with a smile on her lips.

“Richard Farrow, I pray you will do no matchmaking here. For your Elizabeth is currently being attended by Marcus Burke if your memory fails to serve you…”

Mrs Sharpe bristled. Reminding him of just exactly who was in charge of trying to get Libby wed off wisely.

“I hardly think Marcus Burke, or his father for that matter will take kindly to a Duke muscling his way in on Elizabeth…”

Felicity added in a sing song voice. Swinging her legs off the sofa in a coy cheeky manner.

Elizabeth’s eyes met her sisters in a glare. Face stoic, but smiling.

“I think the Duke's presence here will help usher Marcus Burke into taking your hand, Elizabeth. If nothing else, this is only a magnificent development.”

She beamed, chuckling as she sat herself down next to Felicity on the blue armchair, adjacent to her husband. Chuckling to herself proudly as if the world were just served to her on a platter.

Hawkins chose this moment to return into the room, arms laden with a wide tea tray. He swept gracefully in and placed it down. Libby saw that the tray had enough cups on it to serve everyone in the room, a great butler like no other, she thought, and indeed, he had been generous to lavish a great number of warm butter biscuits onto a plate for everyone. But she suspected Mrs Briggs had something to do with that aswell.

“Thankyou Hawkins.”

Libby politely cooed as he set the tray down, also holding out a thin small white envelope under her nose.

“Express came just now for you, Miss.”

He smiled, Libby beamed back at him, before taking it and tearing the small thing open, seeing what was scrawled upon it.

“It’s a note from Marcus Burke…”

Elizabeth smiled lightly. Trying not to notice how Felicity and Mrs Sharpe beamed at that.

She ignored Felicity breathing out an _‘I-told-you-so.’_ In a truly most vexing way that only siblings could manage to do.

And she also chose to flout how Mrs Sharpe muttered a not unheard ‘ _Elizabeth Violet Burke’_ , under her breath. Discounting them as she read silently.

“He states he hopes I will be at Lady Hartwrights Masquerade Ball next week.” She stated after she had read all of it.

“..And still he does not ask for your hand?”

Mrs Sharpe added, sounding offended. It seemed the world on a platter analogy had been snatched away from her.

“I have only been courting him for three weeks, Mrs Sharpe. I wouldn’t impugn his honor and declare him a villanous scandal _just_ yet…” Libby added brightly.

Her father smiled at her. She was one of a kind, his Elizabeth. A sweet disposition exactly like that of her late mother’s.

“Well, my dear Libby. It will be of some comfort to know that if malodorous Burke does not soon ask for your hand, that we have a potential handsome Duke lingering on the horizon. And who knows, he may take affection towards you if he feels so inclined. But you must remember my dear, if neither pleases you, you must take into account that you have a _deeply_ affecionate stepmother who will _completely_ understand should you remain unwed….”

He japed, seeing Mrs Sharpes face grow tight and pursed, and not amused, across the room from him as he stood, and took his daughters hand.

“….And never forget, you should not put aside the alarming fate of your own poor dear old father, whom, he daresays, if you move away, shall not hear two words of sense spoken together until your return.” He winked.

Dissapearing out of the room, after kissing her hand, leaving in his staple pose, hands clasped behind his back, wandering back to his study.

Leaving Mrs Sharpe screeching down to the kitchen for a tonic and a cold compress to ail her nerves ready for tonight.

Felicity was left grumping. Storming off to her room to do some watercolours, as sewing was decidedly through with. Perhaps she’d have better luck with paint.

 

And Libby was left smiling, gladly, as she sipped her tea.


	2. ~The Characters To This Fair Tale...~

 

~ ~ ~

 

~ Meet the fair men and women who shall grace this tale... ~

 

* * *

 

 Our heroine...

 

 

 

 

 

~ Miss Elizabeth Violet Farrow ~

* * *

 

 Our Handsome Hero...

~ Sir Thomas Kenworthy, Duke of Chatsworth ~

* * *

 

 

 Our Villain...

~ Marcus Burke ~

 

 

* * *

 

 Quite, Our favourite little pest...

~ Felicity Harper Farrow ~

 

* * *

 

 Our favourite nattering and silly Mama...

 

~Mrs Araminta Cressida Farrow-Sharpe~

* * *

 

 Our surprise matchmaker, and favourite source of dry wit...

~ Sir Richard Farrow ~

* * *

 

 Our finest, _mouthiest_ , ladies maid...

~ Nessie Ballard ~

* * *

 

 Our most beloved friend to Miss Farrow...

~ Violet Eliza Burchrowe ~

* * *

 

Our finest, roguish, Ladies man...

~ Sir Benedict Carlton ~

* * *

 

 

 

 ~ ~ ~

 


	3. ~The Society Letters of Lady Jane Prideblight~

 

 ~

 

Well, dear readers,

this columnist wouldn’t mind saying that there have certainly been stirrings of a most wild nature in the Farrow household this week.

It has been reported straight to this authors very ears, that Mrs Araminta Sharpe was said to have been raving about the merry fact that she had a Duke coming to dine with her and her family at Farrow House this very evening, April 3rd, in the year of our lord 1858. 

Mrs Sharpe was said to have been gossiping idly to her closest acquaintance, Lady Posy Forthtonne, about the matter as she took tea at the Farrow residence late afternoon.

It was said that Miss Felicity was above stairs trying to mend her talents as an accomplished young lady, and that the reputed beauty of the season – for the 7th year in a row now – Miss Elizabeth Farrow, whom we all know is set to be currently courting and eventually wedding, Marcus Burke, should he ever ask for her hand, were not all as thrilled about the presence of the Duke of Chatsworth as one certain Mrs Sharpe.

It had also been reported to this Author that Lady Forthtonne had to stay for near enough an hour at the Farrow residence, to help ail Mrs Sharpes poor nervous complaints thereafter, holding her hand in a dear manner, she was said to have had a cold compress to her brow and many tonics to help ease her state. All the while, Miss Elizabeth was said to have sat, drunk tea, and read the newspaper with little care as to the visit of the Duke. A most improper way for a young lady to behave…

This Author can only speculate that a Burke-Farrow wedding anouncement will soon be placed in a London paper in the coming weeks, for with a handsome Duke lingering on the outskirts – who is also said to be very amiable and agreeably handsome indeed, not to mention fabulously wealthy and looking for a wife – Then Marcus Burke would do well to snatch the Red haired beauty up before she makes the 8th year in a row, serving as Londons longest unwedded madam of a most odd nature. No matter how 'fine' her eyes may be...

It has also been told to this author that Felicity Farrow is rather unefficient at stitching, so has therefore now declared embroidery a ‘useless waste of a young ladies time’ as she was heard preaching this to her sister, who simply stated it did not matter one jot. And also something about imparied daisys that this authors eyes cannot fathom one wit…

We shall see what becomes of this young spirited debutante come the month of may…

This author dreads to surmise. The Farrow Girls are a most fearsome pair to behold, indeed.

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 3rd ~

 

~


	4. ~The Society Letters of Lady Jane Prideblight~

 

~

 

Just wait, dear readers once I inform you of the recent scandals of London society. As to my earlier morning column regarding the happenings of the Farrow residence, just wait til this Author speculates on the recent morsel of gossip she has been reported with concerning this very same household.

Marcus Burke, Son of the barely wealthy Cecil Burke, and whom is currently seeking to court Miss Elizabeth Farrow, was seen exiting White’s gambling club at one o’clock this afternoon in a manner considered most prude. He is said to have been blind _drunk_ , and having just gambled away and lost another decent segment of his Father’s dwindling fortune. And if that was not enough, he is said to have then made off with a woman of less than desirable repute, as the two were seen going to his bachelors lodgings not long thereafter.

One can only hope Cecil Burke will look upon the scandalous news kindly, - not known to be a man lightly parted from a penny - as he is soon to receive half of what Miss Farrow’s riches has to offer him, If Mr Burke the younger should take her hand.

But word now has it, darlings, fresh from the Farrow household that Richard Farrow has been dabbling in the art of match making to help aid the Duke of Chatsworth to fall madly in love with his eldest daughter, _Miss Elizabeth_. If one can quite believe ones ears! So The Burke’s stand to be in for a challenger to Miss Farrow, it seems…

This author can certainly say that she predicted such a match being made.

Miss Farrow would do well to take a Duke for a husband, Sir Thomas Kenworthy, Duke of Chatsworth is said to be a most handsome man, and have a temprement most alike that of Miss Elizabeth’s. We can only hope she does wed, as this author tires of hearing her many accomplishments and numerous charms. She should sooner marry the Duke, or Mr Burke and stop frequenting the ballroom’s of London For the sake of all eligable men who seem all to take a shine to the fiery haired gel...

Four and twenty is an unsuitable age to still solicit after a husband. One can’t help but wonder if the Eldest Miss Farrow is doing it purely to spite her stepmother?

-Food for thought, dear readers.

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 3rd ~

 

~


	5. The Duke of Chatsworth, Starry Nights, and Love at First Sight...

 

 

 

Sir Thomas Kenworthy, The Duke Of Chatsworth sat in silence as the hackney cab rattled it’s way along the cobblestoned pavements of North London.

He could hear nothing but the quiet repetitive clack of the horses hooves hitting the street every now and then, and the driver barking out commands to the animal. London was shrouded under cover of a heavy midnight blue evening now. The stars light managed to chip and break through the heavy night sky, he peered up out of the polished window, seeing the moon hang dutifully in the sky, the stars winking and twinkling back at him with infinite promise.

He himself was a keen astronomer, he could make out Orion's belt, the little dipper, the big dipper and numerous numbers of other constellations he knew. He loved feeling like an inconsequential speck on the planet when he thought about the stars and heavens in all their majesty.

His eyes returned to looking at the tall townhouses, standing tall and proud like a regiment of marble white soldiers under the net of the stars which was strung up in the sky. He could see that there were fewer gentlemen and ladies walking arm in arm along the pavements now, they were all returning to the safety of their homes, or scurrying off to the opera or to take in a show.

He sat back further into his seat, easing himself into the plush upholstery that the carriage offered. Sir Richard had mentioned another business associate, and his eldest daughter and wife would be present at Dinner. He had been doing business with Richard Farrow for only a few weeks now, it was not Improper, but not all entirely common for such a meagre connection to warrant an invitation to a family dinner – which was something of a private matter nowadays – but nonetheless, Sir Richard had insisted, and Thomas was far too much of a gentle soul to refuse.

Sir Richard Farrow had also mentioned that he would get along quite famously with his eldest girl, Elizabeth, he had said her name was. A pretty name, he granted her. But he doubted that he would find amiability in this woman, she was most likely to be alike every other silly willed girl he had been introduced too all season. Girls who were interested in nothing but dresses, fabrics and petty gossip. But had to obligingly talk to eligible men like him because their matchmaking Mama’s had instructed them too.

He was fed up of London already, he had only come down for a few weeks to conduct his business. Chatsworth was a vast estate to upkeep, and after an uninspiring season of attending ball after ball, and seeing that every girl was as airheaded and stupid as the next, he was rather impatient to return to it. He had tenants to see too, all with matters of their own that he could assist them with. Plus he had to get back soon, he didn’t like leaving Judith, Edith and Iris all on their own. Plus there was Ophelia, God only knows what trouble that old biddy could stir up in his absence. He sighed, he had hoped this season would break the mould, and allow him to return to Chatsworth with a wife on his arm. Not that he needed the assets which a wife would entitle him, he was enormously wealthy, having been left a fortune by his late father. He wanted a wife, just for the reason of having one.

It was an odd concept, this he knew. Most of his friends, and other male associates had taken spouses. And they were, _pleasing_. And that was all they had said. That was _it_.  That notion was awfully strange to him. That his friends, all men of discernable wealth and power, had taken women for wives with no aforethought as to partiality to their character. Heck, he had one friend whose wife didn’t even like him. It was just, as he had put it ‘ _a wise business venture’_ and that thought had rung as an irrational decision in his head for weeks. He didn’t even _love_ the woman he had taken to be bound too forever in the eyes of Almighty God and England. She had just been thrust into it because it did well for families to marry off their daughters, and for young men to gain the maidens wealth. He half promised himself that he was going to marry a woman he found atleast _marginally_ interesting… That way he could be assured that atleast if they did not love each other, then they could grow to be fond aqquantainces of each other. And even the thought of only mildly liking his wife, was still a idiotic one, but it appealed more than openly despising one's wife, he supposed.

It was the best of a bad situation in that case.

The cab rattled it’s way around another corner, a bump in the road throwing him back against the seat, he struck out his hand to keep his balance as he sat upright. Body rolling with the suspension on the carriage. He swiped a hand down his trouser leg, brushing away a stray speck of lint. He had donned full dress wear for tonight. White bowtie, top hat, long black velvet overcoat, his thick winter coat atop this, even though it was not cold out, he decided if it rained it would be wise. He had slim black trousers on his long legs and his shoes had been polished so hard he swore he could use them as a mirror if the situation warranted it. His waistcoat was white also, to match his white undershirt. He had his father’s engraved silver pocket watch tucked into the pocket of the garment. It had been a gift on his 18th birthday, the last gift he gave to his son before he passed away and left the estate to him, and his sister.

He also had his walking cane with him. Usually, summer climes meant that his injury went days without afflicting him, but the slightest hint of damp in winters air sometimes caused him painful trouble. He had seen action in Sevastopol in the Crimean War in 1854. And had been left with a severe leg injury to remind him of the hellish siege that was war.

But, the scar that marred his femur sat now as a testament to what he had survived and fought through. He could remember as plain as day what had happened as he’d been wounded. The trajectory path of three stray enemy bullets had been stopped by the muscle and flesh that was his thigh, and he had subsequently been taken to the nursing station at once by his troops to see a surgeon, all the while loosing so much blood he was barely conscious by the time he got there. But the leech of a surgeon who was attending him, didn’t even make a point of telling him there was no hope at all to save his injured leg, as the bullet had shattered the femur and he predicted it would take years for the muscle to repair as it knitted itself back together again. The surgeon had simply said to the nurse behind him ‘pass me the saw’ and Thomas had snapped. His friend, Sir Benedict Carlton, who had served with him at the time in the 10th Royal Hussars, always remarked he would never forget what Thomas said to the parasite of a Doctor.

He fisted his hand into the surgeons blood stained overalls, pulled them close together until they were nose to nose, and snarled at him with such fury and strength which was utterly remarkable given the sheer amount of blood he had lost, and he  said through a growl;

“If you dare take my leg, you unspeakable swine, Then I sware as God is as my witness and in the name of Bloody Queen Victoria's underskirts, I will hunt you down and saw off yours!”

And the Doctor had subsequently let him be, said he’d extract the shrapnel, but leave him to die of fever or infection if that’s what he truly wished. But alas, Thomas did not. He clawed his way through a vicious fever which further still threatened his life, his mortality clung onto him like the diseased afflictions he was suffering with. Yet still, he did not die.

He fought his way through weeks of pain and fever to limp home and be declared a hero. He had too much left in England to simply give up on and die on the continent. And subsequently, the war had finally made him decide that he hated, and  _abhorred_ violence with every fibre of his being. And that all he knew now, was that as he had come so close to death surrounded by strangers, that when him and death did meet again, decades later, he wanted to be surrounded by his loved ones, Preferably a loving wife, and hordes of children by his side, and an heir for Chatsworth to be passed down onto.

He wouldn’t say, apart from his lust for living, that the war had dramatically changed his life. It just made him appreciate his situation in the world all the more. He had a loving sister, two beautiful nieces who he _adored_ to spoil and dote upon. He had a vast fortune which he didn’t fritter away on booze and illicit company, he had a nice home, and all he wanted was an even nicer woman to share it with. No, come to think of it, aside from the fact his leg hurt him in Winter, he liked his life very much indeed. And he was grateful for all God had seen fit to give him.

The carriage sought to then roll to a gentle stop opposite a tall and practically gleaming house that sparkled white marble back to him in the moonlight. One night lamp burning outside the street in front of the house he now looked at. House number 34, he noted. And subsequently his place of Dining for the evening. The Home of Sir Richard Farrow, quite the nicest and kindest accountant he had ever come across, the most skilled too, he was a guest lecturer in mathematics at Oxbridge University’s in his spare time, clearly a bright man. He only hoped that his eldest daughter, who he feared he would be hurled at in attempts of match making at the hands of Mrs Farrow, would possess some of her Father’s intelligence. Lord help him, _and her_ , if he was to be seated next to a woman who wanted to talk of nothing but petty gossip, and the colour of gowns all night. If that was so, then he was to spend the whole night wishing to gouge out his own eyes with a fish knife.

He took a deep breath as the Cab driver rattled the roof, alerting him to the fact this was his destination.

“34, Farrow House, Montague Street, Guv’nor.” He heard the cockney twang of his driver permeate the still night air.

Thomas swung himself out of the cab, reaching in his pocket to get the fare.

“How much?” Thomas asked in his crisp educated voice.

“Half Crown Guv’nor.”

Thomas flicked the coin up for the driver to catch, nodding curtly with a smile as he stepped down from the cab onto the street, his polished shoes clacking on the cobbles.

“Evening.” He nodded, thanking the driver as he clicked the horsewhip and drove on.

“Evening y’self now.”

He drawled back through his accent that was thicker than pea soup, as he trotted off down the street, turning the corner and clacking away out of sight.

Thomas pulled his coat tighter, cane in hand as he crossed the quiet empty street, letting a couple of gentleman walk on before he crossed the path and jaunted up the front steps of the impressive townhouse. Rapping his cane on the door, flexing his fingers inside his leather gloves. Unfortunately, he didn’t have his white gloves with him, so the black leather would have to do. There was a seconds silence until the door was pulled inwards from the other side, and he was welcomed by the ever impassive face of the Butler. They were all of the same breed, Butlers, always stoic and immovable. But, they were the heads of the house staff, and as such a key component to any house, he decided.

“Good Evening.” Thomas tipped his head forwards slightly.

“Mr Farrow and Mrs Sharpe are expecting me for Dinner. Sir Thomas Kenworthy.”

He introduced. He didn’t want to give his full title lest he feel he was flaunting his station, like a peacock would fan it’s feathers. He was far to humble and gentle to pretend he could pull rank with someone such as the Staff.

But the Butler was already smiling and opening the door for him. Letting him in, saying he was wholly welcomed and expected. Thomas smiled as he stepped through it

The home he stepped into was warm, and well decorated. And there was little doubt that this family was wealthy indeed. They had scarlet red walls, which went along with the diamond black and white tiles which he stood on, which was gleaming like it had been scrubbed recently. Many fine portraits and paintings adorned the walls beside him. Aswell as a large and expensive vase of white flowers sat reeking fragrance on the side table next to him.

“My name is Hawkins Sir, I’m the butler who’ll be attending you this evening.” He introduced as a standard greeting.

“It is a pleasure, Hawkins.” Thomas smiled.

The Butler stepped past him and stood dutifully, hand outstretched as Thomas handed him his coat, cane, gloves and overcoat, revealing his fine velvet dress jacket underneath, Hawkins then moved off behind a door to usher away his coat.

He watched as a door at the end of the long hallway opened at that precise moment, and his business associate, Sir Richard Farrow stepped through it. Smiling that wizened gentle smile which Thomas returned. Beaming right back. A plump mature woman followed him, smiling like it was going out of fashion, and he half wondered how her lips hadn’t fallen off yet. He could only assume by process of elimination that this was the splendid Mrs Sharpe, second wife to Richard Farrow.

“Sir Thomas..”

Sir Farrow greeted as he got to the man, graciously clasping the man’s hand and giving it a firm squeeze to let him now his aged look wasn’t sapping him of strength. It was a kind gesture from an incredibly kind man, to invite him here to dinner tonight, with their family. He was practically a perfect stranger to them. It was quite heartening, really.

“Sir Richard.”

Thomas greeted, smiling and bowing his head lightly as his hand let go. Thomas was relieved to see that Mr Farrow’s hands were left bare, without any white kid gloves, meaning he would not be chastised for not remembering to bring his.

The woman who had followed him smiled loyally by her husbands side. Hands clasped delicately in front of her, encased in black elbow length gloves, a diamond trinket knotted about her wrist, sat sparking in the light, along with a huge pearl dress ring on her opposite hand atop the glove. Her gown was a pale plum colour, with a folded diamond collar pointing down her chest, where the shoulders spilled over he saw black lace beaded with black pearls dripped from her shoulders, aswell as from the jewelled silver choker about her neck, and the droplets of diamonds that hung off her ears. Her greying brunette hair was arranged flawlessly in neat coils atop her head, and he remarked she had relatively little wrinkles on her face to belie her age, and not faded beauty, her warm butterscotch brown eyes looked remarkably _kind_ , to Sir Thomas.

“May I introduce my wife, Mrs Araminta Cressida Sharpe..”

He presented. The elder woman held her hand up to Thomas, and dutifully, displaying his most grateful smile, he took it and placed a kiss upon the back of it.

“I am honoured, your Lordship.”

She curtseyed in a way that made Thomas feel like he was imposing.

“Please, Madam, after being so generous as to invite me to join your family for a private dinner, it is _I_ who should feel most honoured. And I must beg you pay my title no heed, I am your humble guest for this evening” He bowed, tipping his head lightly

He watched as Mrs Sharpe proceeded to blush.

“Oh, nonsense! I must insist you feel as comfortable here as you would in your own home. Pray, do you have an estate to speak of?”

“I do Madam. Just outside of Derbyshire. Chatsworth House. A humble estate, I grant you. No more than 150 acres of land surrounding it. A few tenants also. As such, I find myself thoroughly in need of Mr Farrows exquisite assistance in helping keep accounts for it as brilliantly as he has done.”

Sir Thomas complimented, because it was true, the last accountant he had filed with in London had forgotten to factor in an entire stock of wages for his staff. This caused Sir Richard to laugh and smile, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket.

“Oh, my dear man, Yours are quite the neatest account books I have ever had the pleasure of looking over. And in our meetings together you have shown quite an aptitude for the subject yourself, and a very sufficient system I should daresay, I’m sure you could manage doing them without my help.”

“I’m positive my skills as such would be nowhere as proficient enough, Sir.” Sir Thomas smiled.

“Come through to the parlour, I’ll fetch you a drink, a brandy perhaps? we still have to wait on our other guests I’m afraid…”

Sir Richard explained, placing a hand in the air to gesture to the door they had appeared through to greet him. Talking all the while.

“Pray tell, dear, where is that Daughter of ours?”

Sir Richard asked as he walked Sir Thomas, and Mrs Sharpe deeper into the house, the three of them pausing at the top of a regal imperial staircase that divided up onto a landing before continuing to curve round back into the house. As he got there, his ear pricked at the sound of two voices whispering animatedly at the top of the stairs. Hissing in hushed tones so he could not make out what was being said, but he could hear them nonetheless.

“I do apologise for the lack of our daughters presence, Sir Thomas. But I fear she was still preparing her hair as you arrived. A most silly affliction, for she is never known to be such a vain creature,

 _ELIZABETH…_ ”

Mrs Sharpe called, cooing sweetly up the stairs. He listened as the hissing and whispering stopped, and he heard dainty footsteps echo on the landing above stairs. And he could also hear the rustle of silk skirt as this ‘Elizabeth’ creature began down the stairs. Seeing as she had still been coiffuring her hair as he got here, he feared that he was doomed to receive a vain girl, who fussed and preened about her looks in a manner to that of a narcissistic chit.

Sir Thomas watched as more of the woman came into view, now he could see the beginnings of her emerald silk skirts, beyond this, as she descended, he began to see more and more of this woman. And dare he say, each new speck of her he saw, he grew to rather like.

He was at her waist now, and she was quite slender, of course, the strict corset she wore would hide any true curves of her body shape. But her back was perfectly shaped, flaring out from a trim waist to slender shoulders, all still lavished in emerald green silk, a small emerald collar folded up at the back of her neck, speaking of which, her skin was very pale, quite a shade of pale that he’s never laid eyes on before. Her skin was lily white, and smooth like white silk. Even from this distance away, it looked supple, unblemished and, simply _lovely_. She had quite the most beautiful neck he had ever had the pleasure to let his eyes wander across, and now, she was positioned so he could see enough of the side of her face, and that was pleasing too. She looked utterly beautiful, even though he hadn’t seen all of her face yet due to his angle, but when she rounded the stairs, her slender arm and delicate pale hand resting on the banister atop the stairs, and then she turned to face him so he could see all of her. All of Miss Elizabeth Farrow….

Honestly, he wouldn’t do justice to himself, or _to her_ , to try and recount it. Because he could honestly remember barely anything, but her.

His name, the smell of grass in summer, the colour of the sky, the fact he had two feet. It all was lost on him.

He saw her, and it was almost, as if, even after 30 years of life on planet earth,

that his heart finally began to beat.

Thomas Kenworthy had never been the most admired boy at school. He had also never been the most handsome, or athletic, nor had he been the cleverest, or the most snobbiest. Or even the silliest boy in his class. What he had been, and what he had been for all of his life, was the most well liked. People had always liked him. And for good reason, he was kind, he was gentle. He never had a harsh word to lay upon anyone. And never had he belittled or made anyone feel like they didn’t deserve his kindness and generosity.

Because that was just _how_ he _was._ Nonetheless, for all of Thomas’s likeability, he had never warranted much attention from females as a boy, nor much as a man either. Of course, a few determined society mama’s were resolute and strong-minded in being certain he would make a fine husband for their daughters, but no woman had ever quite taken a serious fancy to him.

He was the kind of man, whom, of all the females of his acquaintance, he was more seen as a kind friend, than the kind of man they could take for a husband or a lover. They all led him to believe he was nothing more than a jolly, dependable sort of creature. The worst part was, all the women he did have the pleasure of being acquainted with, swore blind they knew the _perfect_ woman for him.

So, he carried on, he danced with all the wall flowered girls at balls, to make their day and to make a statement to the snotty nosed snobbier girls who all thought themselves above the quiet bunch, but whom he would make their day, their _season,_  by showing them that not all men favoured skinny snobby brats for their brides. He would always be the man who was still searching for the perfect woman, who all his male friends assured him _didn’t_ exist. And whom all his female friends assured him, _did_.

And that was how he had lived half of his life now, in search and want of this amiable woman whom he could wager he would eventually grow to love. Perhaps even stretch to adore, if he was _very very_ lucky.

But he supposes, he can’t dwell on such things, because now, Elizabeth Farrow’s eyes met his own, and, he wasn’t ashamed to say he was now lost.

Lost in her eyes, lost as to why he was here, except he was now _so_ glad the universe had conspired to locate everything at this point in space and time so they could meet, lost to his own name. Hell, lost to his own two damn legs.

He had been hit by a proverbial lightning bolt. Struck dumb with breathless passion, heady bliss and an odd tingling sensation swarming across his entire being. He didn’t feel hot, or cold. He couldn’t remember which way was up, and he wasn’t sure if his lungs could be found in his chest any longer.

In fact, as he stood there, eyes not moving from the earth bound mortal formed goddess that was Miss Elizabeth Farrow. He knew one thing, and one thing only.

Because it was this singular item of information that made everything else fly away from his brain. It was all that was left in his head now, this solitary titbit of reasoning. His Male friends had all been horribly, earth movingly, abhorrently _wrong_ :

 

Miss Perfection _did_ exist.

 

Because he was now stood looking at her.

 

And _he knew_ without a doubt, that he wanted her.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth and Felicity, no matter how old they got. Would never be too old to be those enraptured children, dressed in their nightclothes, sat on the landing hoping to catch a glimpse of the grownups down below, who would be lavishly dressed in fine fabrics and diamonds. And it was like they were secret intruders on a whole other world, sat watching them from the prison bars of the banisters.

Except, as the years went on, Elizabeth found she moved further and further away from belonging up there, hidden away in plain sight with her sister, huddled in a white nightie and pink dressing gown, hair oft in plaits ready for bed. Now, as she had done her first season, she was expected to be dressed and down there with them. With the adults. And try as she might, she knew she was four and twenty and had many more Dinners to come, yet, she still felt she belonged this side of the stairs.

Mrs Sharpe had acted as strict chaperone and insisted Elizabeth take her bath, scrub her skin til it was pink, and then after her hair was dry and her body sprayed liberally with scented lavender oil, she was to be laced into her emerald silk dress, of which the corset of such made her ribs ache after too long inside it. She had been wrestled into her dresser chair and made up by both Nessie and Mrs Sharpe simultaneously. Nessie tugging her red hair back into a tameable chignon, which pinned all her curls flawlessly atop her head. Whilst Mrs Sharpe layered cold cream onto her complexion, the slightest dust of rouge to her cheeks and some burnt sienna powder colouring to her lashes to make them stand out to her advantage, making her eyes look bluer, and fuller. They decided against lip colour, as one, it would fade with Dinner as she drank and ate, and two, only stage girls and women of the night wore lipstick, and the natural rosy colour of her lips was pleasing enough to a gentleman’s eye anyway. After which she had been caged in her corseted dress which had taken near enough to an hour for Nessie to lace her into. She felt very nearly ready to faint by the time she was into it, from all the numerous times Nessie had instructed her to ‘breathe in’

And now, here she was, diamond droplet earrings placed in her ears, which shimmered when she moved. Hair done. Dressed and ready, made up and reeking of lavender oil, and the honey and lily soap she used on her hair. And still she didn’t want to go downstairs. She didn’t want to face tonight because she had an awfully uncanny feeling she would know exactly how it was going to go.

She would sit there and have to make polite conversation with Marcus, and Cecil Burke, of whom she was sure Cecil didn’t really like her at all. Just saw her as a way of improving his son, and his fortune. And then atop that, she would have to be charming and unfailingly lovely to this mysterious handsome Duke her father had invited. Who would probably think this Dinner was a waste of his regal time, wishing to be back in his grand country house rather than suffer through a dinner with someone as below him as his accountant. And all the while Marcus Burke would be leering at her, and trying to slip his hand down her back, or across her thigh, as he always did when he got slightly drunk. She soon found that all men were wicked on drink. Marcus especially. Lord help her, she didn’t want to court or marry him. She just wanted to slide easily into simple maidenhood for the rest of her days, atleast then she would be happy.

She stood now, with her hand resting onto the smooth wood of the banister that looked down the stairs to the hallway below. She could see the black and white tiled floor that stretched out to inside the front door. She knew that Father and Mrs Sharpe were already downstairs partaking in a small brandy before their guests arrived. And she also knew she should join them. But her stomach was churning in sickness, and she found her body didn’t want to move, she felt so pulsating with nerves that she was almost sure she was starting to perspire, that, and she suddenly felt rather warm. Her dress was already beginning to make her feel trapped, like a caged tiger. She wanted to rip the thing off and go to bed, but, she knew she couldn’t so, here she stood. Torn in anticipation of what tonight would be like.

She tapped her nails nervously on the polished wood on the banister which her hand lay resting on. Nails making a repetitive – _clack-clack-clack_ soundonto the wood as she drummed her fingers. So lost was she in her own head, and nervousness, that she didn’t hear Felicity pad across the carpeted landing to her side. Swathed in a comfy looking nightgown and a pale pink dressing gown. Her feet bare, and her hair twisted up, ready for her to sleep with her paper bows knotted into her auburn tawny brown curls. Smiling sweetly up at her sister, who looked pale and nervous.

“You can’t wriggle out of this one. Mrs Sharpe will notice if you don’t make the dinner table tonight. Especially if there is a titled gentleman present. And would you know, he is a Duke…” Felicity spoke kindly.

Unhelpfully, of course.

Stupidly obviously,

but _kindly_.

Elizabeth’s face creased into a smile. Mrs Sharpe had spent half of the day reminding everyone in the house, short of everyone who walked _by it,_ for that matter, that they were expecting a _DUKE_ for Dinner. _A DUKE._

She felt however, far too nervous to laugh. And judging by the way she had just heard a succession of rattling knocks echo across the front door as the clock on the landing chimed eight, and Hawkins cross to answer it from the stairs to the Kitchens, then she was definitely not going to laugh aloud at Felicity’s little jape regarding their irresolute stepmother, because she couldn’t be seen to be guffawing laughter from upstairs when their polished peacock, the Duke, or their other guests, arrived.

“Is it him? Is it the Duke? Is he here?”

Felicity asked, throwing herself to the railing beside Elizabeth to lean over and try and catch a gander at whomever was now knocking at the door.

Libby listened intently as she heard a voice of a man she did not know, speak in polite soft smoky tones to Hawkins. The man’s, downright pleasant deep voice she decided, was not familiar to her. Therefore, it must’ve been the Duke who now stood at their Doorstep.

“It’s the Duke.” Elizabeth noted glumly to Felicity.

“Is he handsome?”

She asked, both their voices now lodged firmly in hissing whispers, as Libby watched Felicity biting her lip and peering down, twisting and contorting her head in attempts to gain a new vantage point from which to visually dissect the mysterious Duke. Hands clutching the bars like she was an incarcerated prisoner in her own home.

Oddly, and ironically that was how Libby now felt.

Elizabeth dared peer slightly over the landing to see that the Duke was now inside and taking off a tall top hat, gloves, coat and handing across a cane to Hawkins. But where the man stood was just at a point where Elizabeth could only see his lower half, she could only see a fine tailored dress suit stretched onto long, cricket like legs, whose muscled thighs radiated power, but their lean ness told her that somehow he was remarkable at covering distance when he ran using the long lengthy things. And his shoes shone brighter than stars in the night sky. He was tall too, she’d guessed. And judging by the way he looked, moved and carried himself, he was no withering aged old man either. Dare she say it, his voice sounded pleasant, and she was getting remarkably tingly all over, just from looking at the length of this stangers _legs_. She found herself oddly awaiting and hoping the rest of him was as pleasing as his bottom half.

She blushed despite herself at the other – _cruder_ – meaning to that statement.

He was speaking nicely to Hawkins now, again, came that pleasant voice. It sounded damn near _sinful._ Surely no mans voice or tone should excite and exhilarate her as much as his did? _Could it?_

All she thought then was, _Marcus Burke’s voice certainly didn’t get her_ _this wound up. Neither did his legs thrill her quite as much as the Duke’s had, either._

She listened as Hawkins moved off, and then her parents appeared from the front parlour. Making swift distance as they heard their father greet him by name, reaching out to shake his hand. Mrs Sharpe stood now in front of the man, her plump short frame blocking Elizabeth from seeing that mans long legs that made her flush unsuitably.

“ _Argh_ , Mrs Sharpe is blocking my view! Curse the woman! I want to see how Handsome he is! His voice is _dead_ amiable, don’t you think Elizabeth? Husky and divine.”

Felicity asked in a cheeky whisper, eyes shining evilly, smile wide and cheeky, as it usually was.

“Have care how you speak, Felicity Farrow, you’re not too young to be sent to bed for speaking improperly you know…”

Elizabeth warned in a harsh bite of a whisper, though God help her, and not that she _ever_ would admit aloud, but she did happen to _agree_ with Felicity’s dissection.

Elizabeth felt more nervous now. One, because she found this Sir Thomas Kenworthy rather pleasing to look at - atleast his lower half was. And secondly, he possessed such a _nice_ voice. And as she watched him, he hushed something humble and polite to Mrs Sharpe, who flushed bright red as a consequence. And now, thirdly, she supposed, he was charming and if he was anywhere as handsome and divine – to paraphrase and rescind Felicity’s earlier statement – as he sounded, then she was truly in trouble when she had to make polite talk with the man, when she had as much nerves as she did, sweeping through her body. Travelling unhindered through every cell and pore. Then she was now sure she’d make a right fool of herself, she now wanted nothing more than to march back to her room, tear this infernal dress off, crawl under her bedclothes and hide away from the world and all the handsome Duke’s with long muscly legs that were contained within it.

She watched now as her Father gestured to the front parlour, doubtlessly inviting the Duke through for a drink before the Burke’s made an appearance. But still, The Duke managed to keep out of her sight, the awkward angles of the landing meaning that she _still_ couldn’t quite get a glimpse of all of him. and she could see this was tormenting her sister also, as Felicity would be liable to topple headfirst down the stairs soon if she wasn't careful and didn’t straighten up from her current position.

“Felicity!”

Elizabeth chided, pulling her sisters arm to tug her shoulder backwards.

“I want to see him!” She hissed back.

“Don’t be stupid, you are not breaking your neck falling down the stairs to ogle blindly at a Duke, what would Father say if you died in that way, you buffoon!” She whispered back.

Elizabeth tugged Felicity back so she was once again ensconced fully on the landing carpet, rather than hanging off down the banister like some kind of monkey clothed in a white nightgown.

Felicity made a grumpy face at her elder sister.

“You must sware, on Aristotle’s life, that first thing tomorrow morning, at breakfast, you will tell me straightaway whether or not he is handsome!”

Felicity pointed a stern finger at her sister. Who nodded, holding out her hand for Felicity to shake sternly. Though Libby couldn’t quite take the cheeky face of her younger 16 year old sister _quite_ so seriously. Especially when she was heaped cross legged on the landing at her feet. Making them sware on the life of their inescapably naughty, fox terrier, Aristotle, who as they spoke was probably terrorizing cook in the kitchen downstairs.

"You are an infuriating little _gnat_ , have I ever told you as such?" Elizabeth smiled.

Felicity gave a resulting beam at Libby, before she scarpered to her feet, and threw a pleasant little taunting

“Good Luck, dear Sis.”

Over her shoulder, still in hushed tones as she scurried away down the landing like a little mouse, disappearing into her room.

Elizabeth could suddenly never name a time when she had been more jealous of her sister…

Elizabeth turned her body back facing down the landing as she took in a deep beath, her body going quite pinched with nerves as she heard Mrs Sharpe speak up the stairs, shouting for her. Mumbling something first to the Duke, probably in apology for her tardiness, she was sure.

“I do apologise for the lack of our daughters presence, Sir Thomas. But I fear she was still preparing her hair as you arrived. A most silly affliction, for she is never known to be such a vain creature, _ELIZABETH…_ ”

She shut her eyes, dragging in a deep breath before she centred her body at the top of the stairs, and began her descent. One foot at a time, but with each step feeling like her legs were made of wobbly jelly, and her torso was as weighty as a marble statue.

One step, second, third, fourth...

As she walked, an uncomfortable warmth prickled and swarmed across her skin. It was the feeling she often got when she was sure that someone was watching her. The heavy, pressed feeling of when more than a few pairs of eyes were following you where you went. She swallowed, she hoped the Duke wasn’t like that of Marcus Burke, who often stared at all the _wrong_ parts of her, she hoped he would be amiable, and not interested in her. and she started to then wish a thousand other things...

She hoped he didn’t chew with his mouth open, as it was unmistakable that she would be placed near him at Dinner. At attempt via Mrs Sharpe to help force a man into something he should _not_ be forced. And that was to force Mr Burke into wedding her, and to force Sir Thomas Kenworthy to start falling in love with her.

She also hoped that his face was as nice as his lengthy muscled legs, and that he didn’t have an off-putting sense of humour, or was a dull conversationalist, or….

 

 

Her thoughts were left unfinished,

 

 

 

As when she got to the banister of the steps that led down to the hall, she turned, and she saw all of him. yes. She got a good long look from the waist up, seeing the regal face, ink black medium length hair, and the twin set of two blue eyes that looked like two discs, the colour of a summers sky in may, staring back at her.

His body was long, and lean, and he was so tall he could give streetlamps a run for their money, she was sure. His jaw looked like it had been carved by an ancient artist out of a flawless chunk of marble. His lips were thin, but still somehow not ugly, no. She thought they looked soft and warm. They looked just full enough to be sinfully good if she was ever to be so lucky as to be able to place a kiss upon them. His cheekbones were high and arched, allowing her to dissect that they nearly divided his face in three, and his brow was strong and certain, like lentils above a dark concrete window frame. And those eyes that she quickly decided were the most breath taking things she had ever had the pleasure to see, were looking back at her, _burning_ at her, as if she was the only woman he had ever seen.

 

 

She’d never considered herself to be melodramatic before,

 

but now, Miss Elizabeth Farrow knew what it felt like to have the world tugged out from under her feet.

 

 

 

She started down the rest of the stairs, mindful not to trip on her skirts as she decided that falling flat on her face down the stairs would be an ultimate disadvantage on his first impression of her. She walked slowly, hips under her green skirts swaying with the movement as she moved, skirts in her right hand, just so above her knee, as she had been taught. And she, amazingly, glided down the steps gracefully and without incident. Which was remarkable considering how her body felt like it was _humming_ with nerves. 

Suddenly, she felt her night would not be such a waste, and she didn’t care that the dress was suffocating her, that she was sick to the stomach with nerves, or that she had admired his flawless legs with such crude mannerisms and afterthoughts. She wanted to know more, in a fit of mad improper curiosity, about Sir Thomas Kenworthy.

“Sir Thomas Kenworthy, May I formerly introduce my eldest daughter to you, Miss Elizabeth Farrow.”

Sir Richard pressed. Seeing that neither of them had taken their eyes off each other, so much so, he swares he saw sparks fly when their eyes met.

“Elizabeth…”

He started, watching as Sir Thomas took his daughters hand and bowed, eyes not peeling away from Libby. Who, it had to be said, looked pale, shaken, and as if her world had been rocked to it’s very core.

“..The Duke of Chatsworth…”

He finished, pleased to see his predictions about them getting along famously were shaping up to be quite correct, _indeed_.

“An _enchanted_ Duke of Chatsworth, Miss Farrow..”

He beamed, rolling about her name in his mouth as if he were savouring it. _Tasting_ it. And something wicked told her, he _liked_ the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Elizabeth smiled, all breath swiftly vacating her as he kept his eyes pinned to hers and brushed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand that he held.

She had been right. His lips were warm and butter soft. 

Not wanting to let her delicate hand slip away to rest down back at her side. He _wanted_ her, _all_ of _her_. He wanted her middle name, and the name of her cat, _if she had one_. Her laugh, her smile, every single strand of her beautifully red hair, and every one of her blue eyed looks.

“It is a pleasure, Sir Thomas.”

She – finally – spoke when she remembered she had a voice again.

“Believe me when I say the pleasure is all mine, Miss Farrow..”

He beamed. Eyes shining as he increased the width of that great smile that could make nun’s swoon. And could fell even the most cold hearted woman.

 

 

 

 

 

And just like that. She felt as if she had been dead all her life, and now she finally, _truly,_ Knew what it was like to come alive. 

 

 


	6. Burke's Misfortune, Gentle Hilarity, and Calculating Mama's...

 

 

 

Mrs Sharpes nasally tone brought Elizabeth back down from heaven, which she found she was drifting away too as she lost herself in Sir Thomas’s absolutely _glittering_ eyes. She swallowed and averted her eyes, flexing her hands nervously as she looked south to the floor. Sir Richard noticed with reverent glee, and the smile on his lips grew as he watched as Libby looked down, and _still_ Sir Thomas did not take his eyes away from cliinging to her face.

He didn’t know why Araminta constantly complained and fussed about it, this matchmaking lark was ridiculously easy buisness. Well, to him, it was anyway.

“Well, shall we all move into the front parlour? I daresay we shan’t be standing in the hallway all evening..”

The elder woman chuckled, noticing her voice seemed to jolt the pair back down to earth as they were lost in one anothers blue eyed gazes. Watching as she started through the doorway to see that Sir Thomas offered Elizabeth his arm, which she genteely took with a smile, as they started through the door themselves. Sir Thomas tried not to let the brush of her emerald silk clad arm gliding along his skin become as erotic as his mind was making it.

Elizabeths mouth suddenly felt woolly, and sticky, as if she had imbibed a mouthful of very dry biscuits, leaving her mouth quite parched, and she was very aware that the Duke was staring at her with a small amused smile as she licked her lips and remembered the etiquette of the day, and her bone bred debutuante manners. And the fact that a Proper young lady ought never to steer the conversation where others, especially a gentleman, could not follow. ‘ _Nor should she flounder ridiculously in tentative shyness, that is most unbecoming when in the presence of a gentleman’_ She remembered how Aramainta had once screeched that instruction at her.

“Are you partial to London, your lordship?”

She stuttered out finally, turning to him and watching as he smiled, those wonderful eyes looking deep into her own. They shone in pure amusement back at her, watching as even his smile seemed to render her into a stammering girl. He rather liked that, he had never quite had that affect upon a woman before. He liked that he had it on her.

“Please, Miss Farrow, I must insist you call me Sir Thomas for the evening, I don’t wish to pull rank upon the other guests…And as for my fondness of town, I find I am enjoying it most immensely”

He smiled humbly, or atleast, he was now he had made _her_ company. He lowered her arm as she eased her skirts out from under her, and folded her petite frame onto the blue velvet settee. The other was clasped behind his back, making him take on a very formal stance as he smiled down at her. Looking up at him from her sitting state, she found her eyes fought not to slide rudely up his jaw, marvelling at how perfectly built it seemed to be, he had an otherwordly breed of handsome she had never been gifted enough to have seen before. It really did render her quite weak and stupid, and that, she bristled was two things which she never wanted to be. She’d leave those attributes to Mrs Sharpe and Felicity….

She then smiled at his words as she fixed her green skirts so they layered out perfectly under her, causing her no distress.

“I pray you will not voice that notion to my stepmother, she would find the concept of such a thing highly incomprehensible indeed. To her, I fear she believes that station and rank are among the two things in life of which one can be absolutely certain of.”

She smiled. Her initial shyness and absolute striking weakness that his handsome looks left her in, was dissapating now, or, As Mrs Sharpe liked to call it, _‘The true lady, the real Elizabeth, starts to creep out from her reclusive shell…’_

She watched as Sir Thomas smiled, nearly laughing at her comment, easing himself down onto the armchair near Elizabeth at Araminta’s insistance. Before she announced she was off to the kitchen to check upon the souffles, as she got to the door, it would take a stupid man not to see how she jerked her head, encouraging her husband to flee the room also. Which he rolled his eyes, abiding to his wifes request. Slipping out of the door after her, leaving the newly enraptured couple quite alone. Sir Thomas did not pay this matter one jot of his attention, he was far too taken up with Elizabeth. And Libby, became very aware that she had been left alone in the front parlour with a very Handsome Duke. Sir Thomas noticed too, a wry smile on his lips before he looked back to Miss Farrow and continued the conversation to ease the tension in the air.

“Pray tell me, Miss Farrow. What is the second thing, which one may be _so_ adament about in life?”

He asked, leaning against the arm of the chair to sway ever so slightly closer in her direction, looking enraptured. It was a small, inconsequential little move, but it made her smile even so.

“You really care to know? I’m afraid a man of your calibre would find it _unspeakably_ dull.”

She asked, a slight tease to her voice. Her smile making his insides turn quite warm. But on her, teasing wasn’t as direputably flirty as it could have been. It was jovial. _Delightful_ , even. And he soon found that all the ravings about London he had been privy to amongst society mama’s and some of the men whom he was aqquainted with, were quite right. Her eyes really were _‘quite enchanting.’_

“I shall _bare_ my teeth down through the _banality_ of it all..” He promised, hand going to clutch at his heart dramatically as he smiled.

“The second thing every young Miss ought to be sure of, is that she can never do her complexion any harm in a gown of lavender chiffon…” She smiled

Elizabeth then learned what Sir Thomas’s husky and divine laugh was like. And it was music to her ears. She smiled watching him laugh at her.

“Well. I shall be certain to remember that useful morsel of information, Miss Farrow. I oft find that when my niece asks for my opinions on gowns, I am decidedly left with little judgement to offload upon her.” He smiled.

“You have a niece? Have you a brother or a sister, Sir Thomas?”

She asked. Ignoring the little _gnat_ like voice at the back of her head that was Felicity earlier asking if Mr Burke, or The Duke had any younger brothers she could interpose herself upon.

“A Sister, Iris. Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, She is my twin Sister. And she has two girls, who I am not ashamed to say, I spoil quite rotten with gifts and such like. There is Edith who is 16, and Judith who is 5.” He beamed.

“They are lovely names, and ages too. Does your sister not care for town? I daresay it would do you well to keep Edith a secret, for if my stepmother gets wind of a gently bred country girl who has not yet been to town, she would quite wish to take her under her wing.”

She added in a hushed voice. She suddenly had a mad thought that if he spoiled his nieces rotten, how _heavenly_ would he be liable to treat his _own wife?_ She had not been spoiled much in her four and twenty years of life. Yet she rather favoured that it must be quite nice to be lavished upon with gifts with no such occasion as to them other than devotion and doting affection.

“My sister was widowed four years ago, I’m afraid coming to town, for her, is not quite as pleasurable as it once was. It brings back rather bitter memories as I understand.” He spoke solemnly.

“Oh, I most aggrieved to hear it. I am terribly sorry, you must accept my deepest sympathies for your sister.”

She spoke, her brows drawing together in pain, eyes soaking in sad understanding. Which made Sir Thomas smile all the more, she _truly_ was a magnificent creature.

Elizabeth wanted to reach out and clasp his hand to express her sympathies, but she feared that would be _far_ too forward, and tantamount to scandal should Araminta flounce back in and see her openly caressing a man she had only known for ten minutes – if that. Even if it was only touching his hand… Gossip could spread like wildfire, and she didn’t need her name being bandied around London as the biggest flirt of the season. Her previous good natured reputation could be in tatters by the morning.

“Bless you, Miss Farrow. You are far too kind.” He smiled, because he really did mean it.

“I lost my own mother when I was 16. It is a hardship of unspeakable misfortune. But I imagine, as you have informed me, your spoiling them rotten would make you a most _beloved_ Uncle…”

She smiled. Her sense of prediction remarkably on point. They did adore him, to the moon and back. They could not be more grateful to him for extending his home to them, being unfailingly kind to all three of the Thatcher-Kenworthy ladies, he was under no obligations to do so, he just had a big heart, and wanted to be there for his family. Especially after his experiences in the war.

“I am a poor subsitute for their father. That much I know, but I believe I make do in helping out Iris rather nicely.”

He spoke humbly, in a diffident manner that she was just willing to bet, Iris Thatcher-Kenworthy would kindly confirm him to be too modest for his own good, if Libby so lucky ever to have the opportunity to meet her.

“Still, I bet your neices dote upon you something fiercely wicked, Sir Thomas.” She smiled. Folding her hands in her emerald green lap.

He smiled, accepting her compliment by inclining his head in a tiled nod.

“I suspect you are quite possibly correct, Miss.” He grinned.

“Are you to remain in town long?” She asked thoughtfully. He knew she was bred to not ask impersonal or impolite questions.

“My buisness in town is sadly coming to an end, but, I think I may have found reason tonight, to extend it.”

He smiled, his eyes burning deep into her own again in a way that made her flush. He watched as a sweep of redness swept easily and very obviously across her pale skin, down her supple, slender neck and finishing the race at her heaving chest. Of which the neck of the gown bared rather elegantly, her corseted bodice doing her a great number of favours, as he could see the ample fullness of her bosom pushed up high by the restricted space inside her dress. Elizabeth simply knew that the pointed meaning behind his statement was him starting to prevail mutual attraction upon her, he would stay in town just to better make her aqquaintance. The way his eyes were boring deep into her told her that he had not meant to stay for any other reason than to get to know _her_.

Her lips gaped, and she tried to remember how to converse politely with someone of the opposite sex. But his eyes and the way they were wandering across her lips and her face made the task a truly hard measure, indeed.

“Sir Thomas.. I..”

She began, taking deep breaths, through a small gaped smile, hand nervously touching the side of her neck which felt quite _hot_ all of a sudden. Oh, how he longed to follow the path where her fingers touched now with his lips, to be rewarded with one of her tiny gasps of moaning desire. He was willing to bet her cherry pink lips would part beautifully when she sighed through them, his name the only thing on her tongue…

“If you’ll permit me, Miss Farrow. You must allow me to tell you how ravishing and lovely you look in emerald green. A absolute vision.” He rasped, his smile reaching her eyes as quite the lovliest and most seductive thing she had ever seen.

At this point, Elizabeth heard a commotion in the hallway, and as she heard the strict familiar tone of one Sir Cecil Burke, and one Marcus Burke erupt in the hallway, greeting her parents not long after.

She flew from her seat like a shot, like she had been burned. Almost as if she and Sir Thomas were engaged in an act that was considered the height of impropriety. Yet they weren’t, they were merely talking. Yet still she found this was enough to leave her pulasting with silliness of the most female kind, and desperately wanting to kiss the handsome smile away from the Duke’s lips.

Sir Thomas rose to his feet along with her, seeing she looked a little unsettled.

“Madam, please accept my utmost sincere apologies if my earlier compliment was received with alarm. I would wish no such grievance upon you, please forgive me.” He began to gabble, fearing he had let his desire for her overwhelm her in his words.

Elizabeth smiled, quickly.

“The compliment was lovely, Sir Thomas. Quite the loveliest I have ever been given. Understand me when I say I didn’t receive it poorly at all. Only, I fear your stay in town may be deemed an unjust and unmerited venture. For, currently, I am already receiving the attentions of another gentleman.” She spoke quietly. Looking down to the floor, before she met his eyes again. She felt ashamed, leading on one gentleman, when she was already accepting the affections of another. _What must he think of me now?_   Elizabeth panicked. _He must think I am a flirt of the highest order._

“But you must believe me to be so bold as to say I wish now more than ever, that this was not the case.” She hushed quietly. Chewing her lip as she looked at him with sadness in her eyes.

“You are to be imminently betrothed to Mr Burke?” He asked gently.

She nodded. Swallowing in nervousness.

“Do you, confirm, his, mutual attraction, to you?” He asked, lowly.

She blinked, staying still for a second, before her resolve crumbled.

She shook her head.

“Has he asked yet, for your hand in marriage?”

Again, she shook her head. But this time she also let a low and whispered

“No.” crack from inbetween her lovely lips.

She watched as he smiled.

“Then, in which case my dear, it would be unremittingly foolish of me to not give Burke a run for his money.” He smiled, one regal brow tipping back up his forehead in amusement.

“You, wish to, court me also?” She asked.

Again, came that foxes grin.

“ _Oh yes_.”

He purred, and they were stood far closer than should be appropriate now. But neither one of them cared one bit that they were posed as such.

“With your blessing, Miss Elizabeth. I will take it upon myself to make more social visits To the Farrow Household in the coming days, if you would care to receive me, and my attentions.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“Very much so.”

She gabbled, voice racing and her heart pounding. Knowing she was being unfailingly unkind to Mr Burke’s wishes. But, she realised when she first laid eyes on Sir Thomas Kenworthy, that now, she could never settle for a bland man such as Marcus Burke, because her heart had been truly stirred by the Duke of Chatsworth, and she found that was something she could not easily recover from or push aside. She was too much of a romantic to deny herself the feelings of true love when it fell right into her lap, here, in her very own home.

“Mr Burke is, I think, you should know. Not a kind man. I do not think this news will find him well.” She whispered in trepidation.

“Has he ever had the utter indecency to mistreat you, Miss Farrow?” Sir Thomas asked, eyes turning positively frosty at the notion of such.

"..And may I just say, if he has, then I can only apologise on behalf of my gender.."

He offered. Feeling utterly tense now he thought about this vision of loveliness being mistreated by a man's rough hands and brute strength that outweighed her delicate nature.

“I have found out during our courting, that drink makes wicked monsters of men.” She eluded.

He felt his fists clench by his sides.

She took a couple of tiny steps away from Sir Thomas's heat radiating form, which she was being pulled closer too, like the pull of gravity. Just in time for the rest of their party to cross back over the threshold and spot them both, stood in the parlour a respectable distance away from each other. But their romantic profession mere moments ago was not quite as decent as it ought have been.

Elizabeth turned and smiled nicely just as Marcus and Cecil Burke glided through the doorway, Marcus’s eyes heading straight for Elizabeth. It would have taken a idiot of elephantine proportions to not notice how Marcus had little care to how his lecherous eyes hungered over Elizabeth’s figure. Clinging to her behind, and straying for a long moment on her amply proportioned bosom.

Sir Thomas Kenworthy noticed this. And it made his blood boil in his veins, and his hands screw into tight fists of balled muscle as he clasped them out of sight behind his back. Jaw scrunched tight as he tried not to glare at this oaf of a man who did not know hide nor hair of how to treat a woman as exquisite as the one who stood next to him.

Thomas watched as the man crossed to Elizabeth, smile and stance reeking of toxic bachelors arrogance as he walked across to her. Stopping and bowing in front of her, which she returned. Curtseying politely before he took her hand and placed a kiss to the back of it. Eyes curving up to meet hers, and she then found that she didn’t like the colour of Marcus Burkes eyes anymore, she rather found she favoured Thomas Kenworthy’s chipped ice blue eyes far more now, instead…. Especially now that Mr Burkes eyes shone maliciously dark at her.

“You look enchanting, as always, Miss Farrow. A veritable picture of pure loveliness…” He winked. In a manner most forward.

If Sir Thomas got angry at the way in which he could see another mans lips pressed to her skin, then the wink just about made him see red.

“Who is your… _Friend?_.”

Burke asked Elizabeth, the way in which he spat ‘friend’ was enough to show that he would not take kindly to Thomas one bit, raising a lofty brow at the man who towered over him. Burke may have had stocky muscles and the obvious brute strength that came with such, But Sir Thomas had all the sinew and lean muscle that accompanied that of his towering height of six foot four. He was thinner in build to look at, But thinking him powerless would be a absolutely _dreadful_ mistake.

“Marcus Burke, May I introduce Sir Thomas Kenworthy, the resident Duke of Chatsworth.”                

Elizabeth formerly greeted. Watching as the two men glared slightly at one another, giving no movement but a brisk bow that was barely a lukewarm gesture of civility. The two men surveyed each other with frost and ice in their gazes.

“A Duke, eh? Large estate out in the country I take it. Must be a large demanding business to attend to.”

Burke said drily, words like a double edged blade. Thomas couldn’t quite decipher his meaning, or the intentions behind his statement.

“It keeps me occupied.”

Thomas finished tersely. A smile flickering across his lips so that no one could fault him for being unkind. If the man extended niceties, then so would he. If he was going to act in a manner of sheer rudeness to him. Then Sir Thomas would mirror whatever sentiment Burke cared to fend him off with. He would not kill the man with kindness as he was being rebuffed, but nor would he sneer at him, like Burke was doing to him. He was enough of a kind man to atleast not be rude.

And he was quickly deciding that Marcus Burke could not be the man to shackle the wonderful Miss Farrow into marriage. His character was poison, his manner crass and the way he held himself suggested he considered his position in society so great, it allowed him to look down his nose upon everyone below him. Whilst there was spirit in his body, and breath in his lungs, Sir Thomas would _not_ let Marcus Burke wriggle his way into marrying the woman next to him. Because he would treat her no better than a pet, a trophy. And he would not allow himself to account for Miss Farrow to be kept miserably in holy matrimony, bound to the man as an object for him to paw over, and to do nothing but slake Burke’s lust, and produce their next heir. – Over his _dead body_ , would he allow that to happen. She didn’t deserve that. And he had only made Burke’s acquaintance a mere second ago. Already he loathed the man.

“May I ask as to why you are in London when you have such pressing matters in the country, your _highness?_..” Burke started, his tone mocking the Duke. Not caring for the way in which he seemed to be standing over Miss Farrow as if he had any right too.

Elizabeth cast a weary glance over Burke’s shoulder to see that Her Father, and Mrs Sharpe were indeed clustered by the doorway, speaking to the portly man that was Cecil Burke. Elizabeth would be hard pressed as to enquire where Marcus’s good looks came from. Because he certainly didn’t inherit them from his father. Cecil Burke was a short, stout man. With fat chubby legs and arms, and whatever his waistcoat, it always sought to bulge under the voluptuous weight of his protruding stomach. His face and neck were also fat and bulging, his chin and cheeks flabby, and his lips rubbery and wide as he leered at something her father said. Still, Libby noted there was little to no love in the man’s dark eyes. Just _greed._ Greed and a lust for bettering his son, and the family business. So long as it gained him money.

“No need for the formal titles, Mr Burke. Just Sir Thomas will do.” The Duke growled with little patience.

Burke narrowed his eyes.

“Playing _poor_ to appease us simple folk for the evening are we, _Sire?_ ” Burke glared.

Sir Thomas raised his head. Silent scathing look which was virtually deadly on his handsome features. His nails now biting into his hand he was clenching his fist so tight. And imagining how _lovely_ it would be to plant his fist smack bang into Burke’s nose.

Elizabeth felt the need to step in and interject herself somewhat, before things took a turn for the uncivil.

“Mr Burke, Sir Thomas is a business associate of my fathers. He helps keep books for Sir Thomas’s estate in Derbyshire.”

Elizabeth added, a slight bite to her voice that warned Burke that he should try getting along with Sir Thomas, or this evening was going to be an awfully long one, _for her_. Not to mention the fact that Mrs Sharpe would _slaughter_ him if she found out about his upright rudeness to the Duke.

She was aghast that Mr Burke was managing to be so rude to Sir Thomas. The man had done nothing but stand next to her. She was only all too glad that he hadn’t yet found out that Sir Thomas had expressed to her a wish of intending to court her also.

“I see.” Burke bit off blandly.

“Yes, My business has, sadly concluded, but I think I should like to remain in town for much longer now it has. With my work finalised, I may now turn my attention for far more leisurely pastimes. Who _knows_ what agreeable events may unfold.”

Sir Thomas spoke pointedly making sure to look Burke right in the eyes, before his gaze roved off to flicker towards Elizabeth, keeping eye contact with her for a second.

She was sure her brain had intended for speech to come sailing out of her mouth, but all that seemed to surface instead, was a slight squeak. Lips gaping, but no sound coming from in-between them. As she held the Duke’s gaze.

Burke’s teeth looked like his jaw would soon grind them to dust.

It was at this point that Hawkins swiftly entered the room, and thereafter declared that Dinner was to be served.

Sir Thomas smiled, looking at Burke’s gritted jaw before he turned to the woman stood at his side.

“Miss Farrow.” He burst out loudly.

“As highest ranking gentleman in the room…”

He heard Burke grumble deep down in his chest with displeasure. Sir Thomas carried on, poking the proverbial bear with a stick.

“.. and subsequently as you are an unmarried female, may I request the pleasure of escorting you through to the Dining room, as social norm dictates I must?” He asked, a smile gripping his lips in a wide beam as he swares he heard Burke growl louder at the back of his throat.

Both Elizabeth and Sir Thomas watched as Marcus Burke’s hands clenched into balled fists, frowning at the man who _was growling_ and snarling like a rabid animal.

“Perhaps Mr Burke could use the opportunity to moisten his parched throat with a drink…”

Sir Thomas thought aloud in pure taunting as he walked off with Elizabeth hooked to his arm. Glaring with a smile over his shoulder at Burke who was turning a lovely angered shade of tomato red.

The sight, to Sir Thomas, was quite the _best_ thing he had ever seen.

Elizabeth kept quiet whilst they passed her father, who smiled rather too widely for Elizabeth's liking. And Mrs Sharpe, who also smiled, yet wondered why Marcus Burke was a tense as a coiled spring, and as red as a crimson rose. She inclined her head politely to Cecil Burke who gave her and the Duke a fleeting smile. Wondering why his inadequate lump of a son was not the man escorting the red headed chit into the dining room.

They got out into the hall, curving round the corner to walk down another hallway into the large dining room that overlooked the orangery and the garden. The candles were lit on the table, making the silver cutlery glint with flickering sparkles as it lay neatly arranged on the walnut polished table.

“Sir Thomas, I’d no idea a gentleman like you could be so wicked.” Elizabeth stated with a tiny pleased smile as they continued to walk.

Sir Thomas quelled the little satanic voice in his head that leered _'Oh, you have no idea, Elizabeth'_ as his eyes roved over the delicate cross of her collarbone, housed under creamy pale skin, that he wanted to worship with tongue and teeth to make her moan. He wanted to show her how a _gentleman_ would treat a lady. and _oh, how well he would treat her._

“It was worth it to see his face tint redder than a strawberry, wouldn’t you say, Miss Farrow?”

He smiled naughtily, close into her ear, leering close to her supple neck that he also wanted to do _wicked_ things too.

She tried to fight her smile, but Lord and Heaven help her, a smile broke the surface of her pursed lips as she suppressed a quiet titter of laughter.

“It was, I grant you, ever so slightly satisfactory..” She laughed.

Sir Thomas smiled looking at her then. She had a lovely laugh, and he wanted to devote his entire life to helping her better use it. A man such as Burke, _never_ would.

“Imagine his face when he finds you and I are to be seated together at Dinner. I rather wager we shall be treated to the sight of steam pouring out of his ears.” He added in a devilish smile that was too roguishly handsome to be true, she discovered.

Elizabeth’s smile grew until she had to bite her lip to try and stave its ferocity. And then because the image was just so ridiculous, she laughed. She couldn’t _not_ laugh. A man as rotten as Burke would never ensure she had a life filled with laughter and love, like he would.

“I fear he will be veritably purple by the time the night is through.” She offered.

“He will be if I proceed to make you smile that enchanting smile of yours all throughout Dinner.” Sir Thomas grinned, looking down to her as she turned and caught his eyes.

“Are we quite the most awful people in the whole of London to find hilarity in one man’s misfortune?” She asked him.

Sir Thomas smiled.

“Maybe… Yes.”

He granted with a nod as they came to the Dining table, seeing name cards had been placed in front of each setting, and neither of them were surprised to find they were smack bang next to each other. Fate was being a very kind mistress to the couple, this evening, indeed.

Fate, or more likely, the calculating talents of Mrs Sharpe, Elizabeth thought.

She watched as Sir Thomas dutifully pulled a chair out for her to sit down onto. Smiling as she folded her skirts out of the way and continued allowing the Duke to woo her.

“But, I daresay, Miss Farrow, that as I have heard you are quite the sweetest dispositioned woman this side of Grosvenor Square, and I, myself being oft remarked to to have a similar temperament, then two gentle souls, such as ourselves, should take solace in the fact that a little harmless enjoyment now and then, never hurt anyone..” He smiled wickedly.

 Elizabeth found that she was becoming more and more susceptible to his charming smile...

 

* * *

 

 


	7. Nattering Nonsensical Mama's, Pea Soup and Ill Mannered Men...

 

 

 

Unfortunately, Sir Thomas had been most accurate in his predictions of Mr Burke being most thoroughly displeased that the woman he was courting was seated next to an infuriatingly handsome Duke, who kept making her curve her pretty lips into such _nice_ smiles, all evening.

Elizabeth and the Duke of Chatsworth had been paired off to one side of the table, With both Mr Burke senior and junior facing them. Araminta Sharpe had been placed at head of table, sat next to Elizabeth to resume her duties as chaperone, with the youngest Mr Burke to her right. Mr Farrow was adjacent to his wife down the other end of the table, talking buisness and playing the change to Mr Burke Senior, as so many men in London tended to do these days.

Araminta Sharpe, however, was in a lovely little bubble of her own word. Busy yacking away to Mr Burke about this and that. Had he seen her new draperies in the front parlour, for they were most dear, had cost an arm and a leg. But, without taking into account their cost, _very_ becoming to the room _indeed_. The crushed french velvet gave the room a more, _elegant_ manner, she mused. And had he seen how well Elizabeth coud play the painoforte? And he simply had to be updated to the _exquisite_ lace that Mrs Lady Featherton had her new dress trimmed with, made by nuns all the way in Italy, _did you know?_ And then there was the unfortunate buisness of Mrs Butterton dressing her middle girl, a plump red faced _gel_ , in a coloured gown of putrid yellow that suited her complexion very _ill indeed_ …

On, and _on, and on_ she went…. Nattering his ears off like she was taking tea with one of her other society biddies, and not, he surmised with frustration and absolute revulsion, regaling a eligible gentleman with the idle gossip that only a Mama would be privy too. Stories about unfortunate gowns and lace. Lord help him, he really was trying hard not to wrap his hands round the elder woman's throat and assault her stupid mouth into silence.

Marcus Burke’s jaw clenched and he was fighting terribly hard not to saw his own ears off with a dinner knife.

“And I pray, Mr Burke that you have heard that Miss Penelope Clearwater was seen last week at Lady Lucas’s ball, in a gown of a _most_ unfashionable design, _why_ it ought to have been more suited to the previous century, I grant you!..” She cackled.

 _An earless world_. He supposed. _What a dream…_

Marcus Burkes souring mood however, and oncoming lust for dismembering his ears, was barely assisted by the fact that the Duke of Chatsworth, the brute bastard of a man he was, just finished cooing something to Miss Elizabeth, who smiled and curved her lips into a lovely sounding laugh once again.

He was glaring across the table now, jaw stiff with anger as he sat there having to listen to Mrs Sharpe relaying to his uninterested ears, the story of how the punch bowl of lemonade at last weeks ball at Lady Beauforts house had been _unremittingly_ sour.

His spoon was clenched in his hand as he let the first course, of Wiltshire ham and pea soup, go cold. Every now and then dipping his spoon in the broth, bringing it sharply to his lips, eating a mouthful, and lowering his hand, thereby clanking his spoon back into the bowl below him. All the while, Elizabeth didn’t even cast a glance in his direction. Not a one. No, the silly harlot was too busy laughing and flirting like a whore with the bloody Duke of sodding Chatsworth.

He watched as Miss Elizabeth daintily lifted another spoonful of soup to her fine lips, tipping it gently into her mouth. As she smiled, the Duke beside her reaching for a sip of wine, but not before he made her smile and laugh again, she lowered her utensil and dabbed at her lips with her napkin as she smiled behind it.

“I do not hesitate to tell you it is not easy to eat soup when one is laughing as such, Sir Thomas…”

Elizabeth smiled, her napkin returning to it’s place on her emerald lap. Trying for her life, not to dribble pea soup down the front of her gown as he caused her to smile again. Mrs Sharpe would have _her head_ if she sullied her dress.

“For the sake of your garment, I will desist. Miss Farrow. But my lust to make you smile, however shall throughly remain.”

He spoke kindly. Placing down his wine glass after he had taken a sip of it.

“I am eager to hear more about Derbyshire, Sir, I have always had a partiality for country life myself. Often when we visit our countryhouse in the summer I find myself not wanting to leave it.” She smiled.

“Tell me more about Chatsworth..”

She enquired kindly. And Sir Thomas was delighted she was asking him this, because unlike before, she wasn’t doing it out of her well bred politness, she was now doing it out of ardent curiousity.

And the latter was _most becoming_ on her, he delighted.

“Chatsworth House has been in my family for more than three generations. A grand old ruin, I daresay, and I adore it more with each passing day. Me and Iris spent most of our childhood there, my own Mother and Father despised the banality and social savagery of town…”

He pointed out, eyes tipping over to Mr Burke, who looked about ready to kill Mrs Sharpe with his soup spoon. And whose dark angered eyes were visually dissecting the Duke as if he wanted to murder him on the very spot where he sat.

In general, there was an aura of homicide hovering above Marcus Burke this evening like a dark cloud, something told Sir Thomas he wished to start with Mrs Sharpe - so his ears retained their purpose of not becoming vestigial organs every time the woman opened her mouth - and then from there, he would work his way around the table to eventually take him out aswell.

His murder weapon of choice being the soup spoon that was starting to bend in his hand.

“I can’t say I care for town civility all that much, myself.”

Elizabeth added. And he knew she would not truly reveal such a statement if she didn’t go some way to thinking he was entrusted with her respect.

“It has always remained something of a sore point for myself aswell. I believe the only benefit I have ever provided for society is to ensure that several wallflower natured girls received a dance, and some pleasant conversation from me..”

He admitted, taking his own spoon to hand and sipping a mouthful of it down. It was very good indeed, they had a skilled cook, no less.

She turned to him then, blinking in a manner that made her blue eyes most pretty and her gaped lips became most attractive to him. He paused too, returning her eye contact. Asking her what was wrong through his eyes. 

“That is quite the most decent thing I have ever heard of a Duke doing…”

She hushed, obviously surprised by the notion that he would dance with – what society would deem – the most awkward and unsightly females, who could be found wallowing miserably on the fringes of every London ballroom. Watching as prettier, wholer girls danced every dance with a new gentleman on their arm. And here, Elizabeth would always find herself. Too shy to converse openly and easily with perfect strangers, and left self consciously wrung out after she would hear prettier, slimmer girls, _of nicer common coloured hair,_ snide sneering remarks at her ill coloured gown behind her back, but loud enough so she could hear it all. 

Sir Thomas just knew at her response and the gratefulness that he found in her eyes, that _she_ had been one of those wallflowered girls of which he spoke.

He wasn’t quite sure what emotion currently rested on his heart, weighing down the organ with something that felt like pity, shame and disbelief.

He sighed in an unbelieving smile that crossed his lips.

“I believe it does well to show young women, who have been forced by their mama’s to stand out in society, and to have everything about them being dissected and commented upon by lesser and more tenacious girls, that not all gentleman are merely interested in what society dictates as raving beauties..” He explained.

Miss Elizabeth Farrow smiled then, very widely. So widely it made her cheeks crumple and tiny dimples to appear in each cheek. It was a thing of such unpersuadable beauty, that it made his heart hurt. He wished to kiss those sweet dimples away. 

“Unfortunately, I can remember my own entrance into society started with me indeed being, a wallflower..”

She relayed, sighing her words, before sipping daintily on another mouthful of soup.

She can remember plain as day standing in some overcrowded, stuffy ballroom. Where the present company was just about as palatable as that of the atmosphere. After a half hour of being within its drowning clutches, she wanted to leave. She could see the sneering of other society mothers looking down their nose at her silly coloured hair, and her slight nothingness figure. Elizabeth stood there, her hands wringing in nervousness, averting her blue eyes to the floor, her cheeks reddening as she heard Sophie Richworth – reputed to be the nastiest, most unkind gossip in all of London, and to this day, still was – sneer something to her friend about how if Libby turned to the side, she’d dissapear. Then the haggle of girls around her broke into a cackle of laughter. They all had fine coloured dresses, with full chests to fill them out, and already had been engaged for the next dance by a young gentleman. All of whom had taken a look at her and decided to find their dance partners elsewhere. 

Elizabeth had been a wallflowered girl left staring at the floor, unshed tears in her eyes as she cursed her body for being stick thin and unsavoury to look at. She cursed her hair for being so _stupidly, red._ And not a nice buttery tone of blond, or even a rich, deep, luxurious tone of brown. But no, it was horribly, assaultingly, _red. To match her awfully red cheeks,_ she thought _._ She also cursed the damned thing that was tuberculosis, for without it, her mother would be here, by her side, cooing into her ear how beautiful she looked, and how proud she was of her. With those kind brown eyes Elizabeth had missed, and that wonderful graceful smile of hers Libby would be only too lucky to inherit, beaming away at her daughter and making her feel loved, and as if she belonged. 

As it was, Elizabeth had yet to receive several more snide observations to her appearance, and hair, and spindly body, - all of  which were made within the poor girl's earshot – after having been stood mostly on her own, fetched herself her own refreshment, and having not been engaged by any gentleman for a dance. She dared say that not a one had scarce _looked_ at her, let alone wanted to _dance_ with her. After such misery and too much solitude to bare it any longer, she had wandered up to Aunt Cordelia with a quivering bottom lip, three seconds away from bawling her eyes out like an infant, had miserably requested to go home. Which, when they did, Elizabeth managed to hold onto her tears all the way back in the carriage, and up the houses front steps, until they got to inside the hallway. Where her father greeted them back with a smile, asking how her night had fared. And Elizabeth’s hold on her tears dissolved just like that.

She crumpled into her father’s arms and sobbed to his chest about how society was _horrid_ , how she missed her mother, and wanted her back, and that she’d never go to another _wretched_ ballroom, filled with nasty unkind debutantes, _ever again._

A testement to how much Sir Richard Farrow favoured and cared for his eldest daughter, and how he would not have her downhearted by the ferocious unkindness of others, that the next day, he whisked the entire family away to their country home for an early summer until the season started again next april. He wouldn’t let another person slight his Libby whilst he was still standing and sane.

When Miss Elizabeth next graced a ballroom, with Aunt Cordelia as her chaperone, she had kept her chin held high, and met every glance with burning blue eye contact. Of course, however, now, her figure turned heads for a far more pleasant reason...

Out of the shrinking violet the year before, grew the effervescent rose. So to speak.

Her figure had grown full with a vengeance. Her hips were as fertile as that of her wide bust, and her once sickly red hair had grown into a full beautiful head of auburn red curls. She charmed a swathe through the ballroom that night. And many men declared her quite the finest beauty they had ever beheld. Elizabeth had smiled and laughed and danced literal rings around the gaggle of girls who had the gall the year before, to make her miserable, and slight her within plain audible range. Now, just as Elizabeth had secretly hoped, they were all quite  _envious_ of her. She engaged two dances with Sir Benedict Cartlon, who Sophie Richworth was reputed to have quite set her cap for, just to prove a point to the snide chit. And she had smiled to herself all night as a consequence.

“Now _that_ , _I don’t_ believe.” Sir Thomas hushed softly.

She blushed, blowing on her hot soup to cool it down as she held her spoon aloft. He could see a pretty flush work its way along her cheeks, creeping down the delightful column of muscle that was her neck.

“It is true, I’m afraid. With or without your credence of the matter. My hair was considered a most uncommon colour. My legs too gangly, and almost no discernable figure to speak of.” She informed him.

At her explanation, his eyes then sought to rove low over her body, fleetingly, as she sat beside him. She had undoubtedly lost all those unsightly features which she listed as the start of her adolescence - but he had a feeling even when she _was_ that ungainly gangly creature, he still would have taken pleasure from her form and character, he had been no rogue debonair in his pre-pubescence either – but now,

_oh now,_

He sent a silent thanks up to whatever crafting god of benevolence was responsible for giving her looks that eroded his resolve, and flared his temptation...

Her hips, even under all the numerous layers of her skirts, and all the frippery and frills that society required young women ought have concealing their true figure, he still found that her hips were overbearingly fertile looking. Wide and rounded, as also, he imagines her soft squeezable thighs to be. Her waist was slight, and petite, and he imagined even without the assistance and restriction of a corested bodice, that her waist would fit perfectly to his arms if he slung them about her. Also, on a related point, he would hazard a very impure guess that her breasts needed no aid from a corset either. They were round, full and sinfully heavy, their size indicating that womanhood had been very generous to her indeed, to give her such a buxom, hourglass figure, that he was sure many a young man in London had fallen victim to wanting to admire.

“..Even if that is so, Madam. I must urge you to know that I still would have delighted in talking to you, I daresay your wit is quite unlike that of any other girl I have known.” He smiled.

“Yes, Mrs Sharpe often _curses_ my wit. She says it is a most unbecoming feature. For men, I am told. Do not take well to _funny_ girls.”

“It is true.” He japed. Humouring the silly notion. 

“We Men all love a stupid wife. I myself make a point of not talking to a woman if she has a brain that is larger than the size of a pea. No good can come from having a girl with more than a eggs cup full of sense about her” He joked. 

Elizabeth broke into her laugh again.

“..And, for example, any woman, If she can navigate herself around a tree, I find it in my best interests to keep on walking.”

He continued, smiling in good humour as he focused on the soup again. hearing Elizabeth chortle her sunny laughter beside him.

There came a sudden shrill _CLANK_ noise from opposite the table where Marcus Burke sat, Sir Thomas noted once again how he had let his spoon plonk down to the base of his bowl of broth. Never mind yacking his ears off about some tosh regarding balls, and dresses, Mrs Sharpes manner would turn into a kind alike that of her name if he continued to assualt her expensive crockery. That, and the man had a affinity for wishing to inflict violence furnacing away in his dark eyes.

Sir Thomas favoured that in due course, If he prevailed upon Elizabeth to laugh much more throughout supper, then Burke was going to crumple the nimble piece of doomed cutlery to deformity in his beefy fingers.

“If you’ll permit me, Miss Farrow, we have devoted a large portion of the evening to discussing my affairs and way of life, but, allocated remarkably little as to yours. I wish to appeal upon you for some insight. First mirroring the question you earlier asked me, have you any Brothers or Sisters?”

He asked. What he had said earlier, he meant. He wanted limitless details of her life. Along with every strand of her hair, each one of her blue eyed looks, her desires, her favourite colour, and her damned cats name, if she had one. He wanted _it all_.

“I have a sister, Sir, Felicity. She is 8 years my junior, and often serves well as quite an annoying little _pest_ , to my eyes, quite the little _gnat_  when the mood takes her, but I do love her very dearly.”

She spoke kindly, taking a sip of her wine. For some reason unbeknownst to him, he must have overlooked this earlier, but she looked quite ravishing in candleight.

It transformed her, from the fair milky skinned, blue eyed Miss, with curls and coils of brilliantly red hair, into a absolute temptress.

The way the light of the flame danced across her skin made her look heavenly, to him. The smooth skin that lined the soft build of her cheekbones was crying out to be kissed, and his lips ached and yearned to fulfill such a promise.

His eyes were drawn to the delicate little things that were her ears as the candlelight caught the diamond droplet earrings that dripped from her lobes, reflecting magnificently from her ears, twirling shafts of candlelight about when she tilted her arm forwards to stand her wine down again, the earrings jittering with her movements. The light also malformed her eyes, he’d already agreed with half the men in London in regards to them, they were _utterly enchanting_. But now here, in the dim flickers of candlelight, they looked like two twin little discs of hypnotising sapphire blue wonderment.

The same could be said for graceful curve of her full erotic lips, the way they were casting some spellbinding enchantment on him to pull her close by the arm, and mold the fabulously soft cherry looking things to his own mouth and kiss her until they were both wild with need. Instead, the far duller alternative was to sit here, straight backed, politely eating dinner and having to be satisfied instead with just the sound of her laugh, and the sight of her winningly pretty smile.

And the fact it was driving one detestable Marcus Burke to the brink of madness was just a _sweetener_ to the evening, as far as he was concerned, he thought with a wry smile.

He realised she had mentioned something, apparantly, about her, _gnat,_ of a sister which made him smile. It reminded him of when her and Iris were young, and fought futilely as two young children. Of course, Iris was not of a pesky temperement, and niether was he, they just squabbled when they were bored of entertaining themselves. They were fairly close as brother and sister.

And it would do well for him to answer her, rather than to daydream about loving her fertile hips or gazing unhindered into her luscious eyes for his eternity.

“A _Gnat_?” He asked with hilarity.

“ _Ugh_. Yes, heaven knows Felicity would try the patience of a saint. Her grating personality has been known to send Nessie, our Ladies maid, fleeing in anger more than once. Mrs Sharpe too, I daresay.” She smiled.

“We were sat down for Dinner just yesterday, all four of us, and Felicity spent the whole time trying to remark to me how she had once called upon her friend, Charlotte Quinn, and was rewarded to see her reputedly handsome elder brother, Edward Quinn, in a state of undress. Anyway, she sat giggling about her fortune, and Father turned to Mrs Sharpe and remarked with despondency and a raised brow of despair; _‘My dear, Araminta, I think we can safely boast that here sits the silliest girl in all of England.’“_

Elizabeth recalled, She watched as Sir Thomas’s wide smile turned into a wide grin.

“She has that certain, younger sibling personality then? A _trying_ one at that?” He asked, enquiring further.

“ _Lords, yes._ She has been commented on throughout London to be what _all_ society gossip columnists call _‘an ultimate required taste of the highest order’_ ” She repeated.

“But…”

She sighed thereafter, a kind of glum acceptance overtaking her tone.

“She is my kid sister, and I do love her most dearly, when we aren’t squabbling at how silly she always is, we get along rather nicely – much to the reprieve of the nerves of our stepmother…”

Elizabeth spoke, watching as Sir Thomas shifted to one side, uttering a polite ‘thankyou’ as Hawkins and Nessie came in to help clear the plates from the starters away.

Elizabeth leaned back and smiled, thanking Nessie as she took away Elizabeths dish of cooled soup. Half of it was still left, and that was _most_ unusual for the lady. Nessie remarked to herself, she usually had a rather large appetite. Sir Thomas Kenworthy proved a worthy distraction, so much of one was he, in fact, that it could make even the lions appetite that Elizabeth had, suffer, as his all consuming character had taken up her attention, rather than her pea soup.

But Libby noticed that Nessie stayed leaning close to her, lowering her torso down to speak into Elizabeth’s right ear.

“Pardon me, M’am, but why is Mr Burke looking like he wants to wallop someone?”

Nessie asked, comment drowned in her cheeky cockney accent as she whispered, after she had taken Elizabeth’s dirty plate into her hands.

She was a wonderful girl, Nessie, she had been serving downstairs as cook’s assistant since she and Elizabeth were 11, and then upstairs to help draw bath’s and dress hair for Felicity and Libby as they all grew older. She was a slight girl, whose figure was willowy and of little shape, her hair a dirty blonde colour, and she had a rather kind pair of moss green eyes. Her stick thin but athletic form was not helped along by the fact that the servicable gowns she wore were shapeless and oft very bland colours, tonight’s gown was a donkey brown hue that she was sure she had put on as she was helping cook prepare dinner – But as they were of similar size, Elizabeth had often given Nessie some of her old gowns that didn’t fit her anymore.

In fact, she had been so generous on one occasion as when Mrs Sharpe had given her a gown of mint coloured velvet that she abhorred, she lay false claim to the fact that it needed so much alteration, she should just let Nessie have it instead. Her and Elizabeth had a similar level headed way about them, they got along famously. As both of them could only tolerate Felicity up to a certain point. The human spectrum of tolerance and patience could only stretch so far, they’d remark to each other… beaming in understanding of what it was like when Felicity threw one of her diva like tantrums.

That was another thing that made Elizabeth quite uncommon, She didn’t pay much heed to the heirarchical structure of class. She conversed, and larked and treated Nessie as if she were a titled lady, such as one of her friends. Many called it odd. Elizabeth called it plain human decency.

“I believe my interaction with the Duke has something to contribute towards his, _indignant_ state..” She whispered back.

“The Dukes dead handsome though, Libs. A Right rogue he looks like.”

Nessie smiled. Biting her lip as she swerved back to ogle him some more.

Elizabeth smiled, despite the fact she knew she shouldn’t. But she swerved her blue eyes up to meet the amused and kind moss green orbs of Nessie’s own eyes, which were looking right back at her.

“I’ll have you know he is an utter gentleman.” Libby added kindly. 

“Got nice big hands, and lovely _strong_ arms, could give you a nice big _squeeze_ , _he could_..”

Nessie drawled in a silly girly manner into Libby’s ear.

She grew flushed, and nearly spit out her wine, seeing Sir Thomas turn and smile, raising one regal brow questioning what Elizabeth was gabbling to the maid girl about.

“That is _far_ too bold, Nessie.”

Elizabeth chided, hand going to her lips so she didn’t slobber wine down her front, before the girl gave her one of her bestest cheeky smiles, green eyes shining with mirth, before she swung back from the table, and back to the Kitchen. Mrs Bartley, the plump cook, would have her guts for garters if she didn’t return to help out with mains soon...

“You are close to your ladies maid..” Sir Thomas noticed.

Elizabeth smiled, a gulp of wine thudding down her gullet. Making her voice no more than a raspy squeak when she spoke up again.

“Yes...”

She offered biting her lip, struggling to add more to her statement, fearing he would find it the height of impropriety that she conversed and kept good company with the staff.

“That is a most admirable thing. You can always be clued in to someones character, I believe, by the way that they treat other people, especially maids or staff.” Sir Thomas smiled.

It was _that grin_. She had only met the man this evening, yet already his grin was rogue enough to become an infamous thing.

That grin that clipped Elizabeth’s knees, even though she was sat down. The one that was his most melting smile. A kind that promised secrets and delight. The kind that made her flush from the tips of her ears, to the bottom of every one of her toes. She had heard of the heart-dropping-to-ones-stomach before, but now, his smile made her know what it was like to _feel_ it. Well and truly. Her heart felt it like it was in her stomach, her stomach and lungs had been relocated to her ears, her heart was going to beat itself into the next room, and her brain was somewhere east of France.

It left her so muddled and stuck, that the only thing that snapped her out of it was indeed a literal _snapping_ sound. As Marcus Burke clicked his fingers on the other side of the room. Rudely, then pointed to his – third – Elizabeth had been keeping count, empty glass of wine to be refilled. And of which Hawkins dutifully obeyed. But it was the height of rudeness for him to ask in such a crass manner.

She caught Sir Thomas eyes, and he, having seen the rude gesture also, gave her a look that joined up their understanding that he was not a nice man. At all. Not one little bitty bit of him was _at all_ good.

In that moment, Elizabeth knew what it was like to be _saved_.

Because here, next to her was a gentleman of supreme generosity and kindess, who looked as beautiful as if a sculpture of a greek god had come to life, and he had declared his wishes to be seen with her about town, and get to know her. And his smile left her silly, and she quite found that he had the nicest disposition in the entire world.

Because, had she not met the handsome Duke of Chatsworth, then she’d be wed off, and then her future would be conjoined with the awful mannered brute who sat opposite her, and who had displayed tonight, if nothing else aside from his discourteous comments to Sir Thomas and the fact he had been scowling at the man all throughout the soup course, had showed her that he was not the man she wished for him to take her as a wife.

But the man to her left, however. _Was._

And she was filled with this otherwordly sense of appreciation, and she made a mental note at the back of her head, to disclose to him as such when they were better acquainted. She was enternally grateful to Sir Thomas Kenworthy.

Because he had rescued her, in the most important ways a person _ever_ _could_ be rescued.

And he didn’t even _know_ it.

 

 

 

~

 

 

Soon after the last course of Chester pudding, of which everyone – except Elizabeth and the Duke had wolfed down with delight, they had once again been too absorbed in conversing - and after the plates had been swept down into the kitchen by Hawkins and Nessie, Araminta had insisted upon everyone taking their after dinner aperitif in the front parlour, where if anyone cared for it, they could have a game of vingt-et-un or whist. Should anyone fancy…

Again, Sir Thomas offered Elizabeth his arm for assistance as they walked from the Dining room to the Front parlour. Sir Richard Farrow threw his daughter a rascally wink as she walked by, which she smiled back at. Seeing his Elizabeth’s beauty had snared _another_ suitor. And this time, it was a far better match than Mrs Sharpe's foolish plotting of teeming her off with the boorish Burke. He liked Sir Thomas Kenworthy, he was a sensible man, he was remarkably smart and had shown great skill at managing his estate if his immaculate accounts were anything to go by.

If it wasn’t too presumptious to admit – going by the way when they first laid eyes on one another they had both gone quite stupid for a few seconds – Sir Richard predicted that Thomas Kenworthy would make a _grand_ son-in-law. And that Elizabeth would suit the title as the _Duchess of Chatsworth_ very well indeed. _Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy,_ it bore a nice ring to it.

Elizabeth rather wagered she was rather growing to like being on Sir Thomas’s arm. It made her never want to leave it.

Cecil Burke harrumphed. Fixing his useless oaf of a son with a withering stare, that looked angered as he watched that stupid Farrow girl flounce out of the door, smiling prettily at the Duke who took her arm and led her away to the parlour.

A blind man would have been able to notice how Marcus Burke sprang from his seat like a shot. Scattering after the enamoured couple, and most importantly, before his ears started to bleed, away from Mrs Sharpe, whose mouth had not stopped moving all night.

Sir Richard and Sir Cecil followed, both swirling glasses of brandy and muttering about how the war was bad for London buisness. Mrs Sharpe left in their wake, enquiring as to how the coal haulage company fared to Burke the Elder.

Much like earlier, Sir Thomas helped Elizabeth lower herself onto the settee, easing himself into a chair a respectable distance away.

Both of their smiles dropped, as did their moods, as Marcus Burke moved into the room. His presence cutting off their conversation.

He had taken more than five glasses of wine at Dinner, Elizabeth had noticed, and it must have made him far more bold and unrespectful of society rules and etiquette, because he folded his coat tails out of the way and eased himself onto the settee. Right next to Elizabeth. Glaring at Sir Thomas all the while.

The three sat in rather tense silence before the others swayed through the door to join them all. Araminta raised a brow at the fact that Marcus was next to Elizabeth. Sir Richard and Cecil took up places in the armchairs at the opposite end, adjacent to Elizabeth and Mr Burke the younger.

“Well…”

Mrs Sharpe began, seeing that the conversation was starting to lag. And as hostess, it was her duty not to let this happen.

“Mr Burke, it was extraordinarily kind of you to send Elizabeth that express letter this morning. So courteous to enquire as to her attendence to Lady Hartwrights Masquerade ball this Friday.” Mrs Sharpe smiled, beaming at him.

He gave a terse grunt.

To Elizabeth however, this provoked an internal scoff of the most  _extreme_ incredulity.

She scoffed, it was as far from courteous as he could manage. It wasn’t a plea into her attendance. It was an _order_. And if there was one thing she had grown to hate in her recent life, it was being ordered about. Especially as it was by a man who thought she was _his obedient_ puppet.

“I adore masquerade balls, theres something so wonderfully furtive about attending in costume. Everyone’s Identity kept a secret behind demi masks, its such a delightful riddle.” Elizabeth added. Smiling.

“Its damn childish if you ask me.” Marcus Burke spoke up.

“I quite agree.” Cecil spoke up, after taking a long slurp of his brandy.

 _You two must be such fun company on ones own._ Elizabeth thought to herself drily.

“No. I think I uphold your statement Elizabeth, there is something, wonderfully. Clandestine, about masquerade balls. Secret Identitys and such like…”

Richard Farrow spoke up, seeing that they were obviously not going to wrench a single good natured, or kind word out of _either_ of the Burke’s this evening.

 _Burke by name, Berk by nature._ Sir Richard chuckled inwardly to himself.

“I find I share that opinion also.” Sir Thomas spoke up.

“It’s an odd traditionality, I’ve always thought, but a fun obscured one at that.” He added. Smiling gently at Elizabeth.

“I myself have been fortunate enough as to warrant an invitation to Lady Hartwrights ball this Friday Eve. I am delighted beyond measure to know you will be attending, Miss Farrow. I will even be so bold as to beg to engage a dance with you if I may?” Sir Thomas smiled. Looking over to her as she smiled, widely.

Far too widely for Burkes liking. He snarled lowly at the Duke from the sofa.

“You may, Sir Thomas.”

“Splendid.”

He smiled, shooting her that grin that made her go perfectly _stupid._ But she didn’t care. It made his eyes sparkle, his smile look atleast ten times as fetching, and she was quite relieved to be sat down. She didn’t trust her treacherous legs to keep her up if she had been standing. They too would buckle. she was sure of it.

 _“Traitors”._ She smiled inwardly to her own lap, pointing bame at both her now sufficiently jelly-esque knees.

Sir Thomas held his hand up to decline when Mrs Sharpe offered him a brandy. Elizabeth also loved how he was a man who didn’t imbibe himself to the point of stupidity on drink either. This made her smile. Marcus Burke however, accepted a glass with a concise thanks, snatching it from her hands and gulping it down in one go.

“Um, oh-h.”

Mrs Sharpe floundered as he grit his teeth through the sharp sting of the alcohol and he went back straightaway for another. Still not saying a word. As was his father. Just sat there scowling in the Duke’s direction.

Sir Thomas was politeness and gentility personified. Whereas both Misters Burke had not one teaspoon of refinement or gallantry about them whatsoever.

She stuttered and started for a moment before she turned her attentions to the sober Duke in the room.

“S-sso. Sir Thomas. Where abouts are you staying in London? I must imagine a man of means such as yourself must have a home here aswell as Chatsworth?”

Mrs Sharpe asked, trying to tug her eyes away from where Marcus Burke was draining his second glass at a rate of knots aswell. The first must have not even reached his _stomach_ yet.

Never mind her earlier thought of neither Mister Burke’s having a teaspoon of gallantry. That seemed a trifle too generous for them. Better _a thimble_ would suit the analogy, she feared.

“That I do Madam, I’ve a townhouse on Palace Street, a stonesthrow away from St. James Park, but currently it is undergoing some rennovations which are too disruptive, preventing me from living in. Fortunately though, My close friend, Sir Benedict Carlton, heard I had planned to come to town, therefore invited me to stay with him in his townhouse upon Bloomsbury Way.” He smiled.

“Oh, Mr Carlton! _, oh_ , I _do dote_ upon him. He is very well acquainted with our Elizabeth, for he has danced with her many times at balls, and declared her quite riveting company.” Mrs Sharpe delighted.

Sir Thomas smiled, brows raising as he obviously had not been aware of this information. But he would certainly give Benedict a good _kicking_ once he returned home, for extra measure. His kind Butler, Perkins, was too old to have his aggression taken out upon him. So Benedict, by proxy, would have to do.

Because Benedict Carlton was a reputed ladies man. As handsome as they came, and twice as cunning and charming. His face was long and regal and made mothers and daughters alike, swoon. His eyes seemed to shift colour, and he had a  handsome head of brunette curls that young innocents dreamed about. Not to mention charm and male beauty in spades. He made the legend of Casanova look like a _monk_. 

He had attended most every married woman from Shepherds Bush to The Isle of Dogs. Those whose husbands were busy gambling, drinking, taking time with stage-girls, or absolved in other pastimes, and Benedict had had nearly _all_ of them. Save for those who were considered plain and unattractive, and innocents. Because if Benedict ever decided to take an innocent, (whom he all  deemed the acronym MTTTW, More Trouble Than They're Worth) then no girl in _London_ was safe from the man. 

No girl in _England_ for that matter. 

Thomas was damned if his rake of a friend would woo and charm his way into the Farrow Household _. On pain of death would he._ He thought.

They had served together in the same regiment of the 10th Royal Hussars in the Crimean, and cultivated that kind of brotherly bond that only came about through sharing the experience of life through battle.

And also since Thomas had placed a bullet through the ribcage of the man who’d been about to put one through Benedict’s own chest. He owed Thomas his life, so one _little_ kick in the shin from his long legs was perfectly fair game, all things considered. He would be sure once the man rolled out of bed some time after noon tomorrow, after getting home in the very small hours of the morning, to accost him most fiercely over breakfast (slash lunch) as to his involvements with one certain Miss Farrow.

Because if he found the rogue had even lowered his hand one _millimetre_ from her waist to a place that was considered most improper, then he would kill him.

No questions asked.

He _would kill him._ _Five times over. With a rusty spoon being his weapon of choice. A pistol or a sword for his death would be far too much of an indulgence._  He thought. Better to make the weapon _blunt_ , and the death _slow_ and agonising. 

And he would destroy him on the very _spot_ where he stood too. Probably smiling that stupid infuriatingly charming smile to really make Thomas go so _far_ past anger, he’d have to look back with a telescope to spot how far from anger he was. He was _sure_ of that.

Because the thought that Benedict had smiled his wolfish smile at Libby, and touched her skin, hell, even _kissed_  her damn hand, was enough of a notion to make him seething wild with rage, and utter defensiveness for her reputation.

Because he could abuse and scold Benedict into promising never to take the lovely Miss Farrow into his arms for a dance ever again.

What he couldn’t do, however, was the same to Mr Burke, for fear of erupting scandal. And he would try to avoid that as far as possible. Because that would lead to the assumptions that Miss Farrow had _given_ herself to one of the two gentlemen she was receiving if they began to compete and argue over her. And he _would never_ in a million years, in a _trillion_ even, put her in a position to be damaged or hurt in any way by his own hands or actions.

“I shall be so good as pass on your well wishes to him, Mrs Sharpe.”

He declared with a small smile. Banking the mental note to give the mans shins a damn good kicking when he saw him next.

“He is a very handsome man, Sir Benedict.” Mrs Sharpe added.

“I would not know myself, Mrs Sharpe. But I believe every debutante, and fair lady would wholly agree.” He smiled.

Mrs Sharpe laughed, and it was a sound that forced Marcus Burkes ears into wishing to become non-functioning degenerate organs again, he dived back into his brandy glass, finishing it to take the edge of the voice that he had heard quite _enough_ of, all evening.

“Yes, quite.”

Mrs Sharpe smiled. He showcased humour too. She liked that in a man, it showed a hint of amiability. Of softness that man ought have about his character.

“Marcus. I believe we had better make leave. I wouldn’t wish to importune on you any further, Sir Richard, Lady Sharpe.”

Cecil Burke spoke in parting, eventually, pushing up so he was on the balls of his feet once more. His large belly and flabbiness making it rather a hard venture. Sir Richard stood with ease, thanking and shaking hands with his buisness companion, Mrs Sharpe crossing the elder Burke to do the same, and bid him goodnight.

Marcus silently and got to his feet. Elizabeth rising along with him

“I shall call upon you tomorrow, My lady. Pray, expect to receive me no later than two o’clock..”

Marcus spoke in a gruff, his words on the verge of slurring together. And as when he stood, he swayed, slightly drunkenly on his feet. And to no wonder, he’d had half a bottle of brandy in under five minutes.

She fought the need to recoil from the fumes coming from his mouth that could have flawed an elephant.

As Elizabeth offered her hand, he took it and smacked a slobbery kiss to the back of it.

But as she went to pull away, his hand clenched tight about her slim wrist. It was hurting her, the grip so sudden and unexpected, and he was displaying his brute force in no spared measure as he was so intoxicated.

She wriggled, jarring her arm back, attempting to jerk it back away from his grasp. Sir Thomas saw this, and the smile dropped from his lips instantly, he also detected that the look on her face was one of wariness as her brows tugged together in misunderstanding.

Because next, Burke swerved his lips close to Elizabeths right ear and spat a sentence so vile it made her body shudder and swirl with sickening black shock. Spreading through her stomach like something cold and dark had gotten into her veins.

“Don’t forget who you belong too, Elizabeth.” He snarled.

“Or I will make our marriage a most _miserable_ one for you. If you _even think a_ bout receiving the Duke’s attentions like the _whore_ you are, then I will make sure to _destroy_ you and your _prim_ reputation. And then I’ll _destroy him. And_ I’ll ruin you before you can bare the grand title of Duchess. He won’t take you if I'm the one to  _ruin_ you. _No man will_.”

He spat nastily into her ear in a hot whisper. And those lips and smile she had once admired, was now threatening to abuse her in the most awful way, and that made her stomach drop to her feet.

His hot breath rolled across her ear and made her skin tingle in the _wrong_ kind of way. It made her skin thrash in a manner that made her want a fat bar of soap and a washcloth, and water hot enough to tint her skin lobster pink, in attempts to try and scrub away the memory of his touch as if it had tainted her.

Her parent’s hadn’t seen what he had done. They had their backs to them. Muttering their well wishes and goodbyes as Marcus had accosted her. She could only hope that Sir Thomas hadn’t heard what he had growled at her.

She tugged her arm back, and was met with more success this time, as when she heaved her arm back, in fact, so far back in the socket, she feared she’d wrench it free. He let her go, but she could still feel his thick fingers burning pain onto the skin of her arm.

As her eyes flickered across again to Sir Thomas, he bolted to his feet and came to stand close to Elizabeth. Attempting to try and ward Burke away, and reassure her.

All that Libby could recount was that it was a most lovely sight to her _indeed_. He looked _taller_ , if that made any sense _(probaly not)_ because the carefree slouch he imposed when he stood was nowhere to be seen now. He had drawn up to his full intimidating height that a slouch would not allow him. He towered over Marcus Burke, magnificently, _she thought_ , like an angry god. His eyes colder than December air, and his look was one that could have taken down the fury of a charging army with one twitch of those impassive blue eyes that positively _blistered_ in absolute fury at Burke.

Elizabeth also noticed that as he stood, his hands had made balled fists by his thighs. She saw him brace his arm back as he swung back lightly, looking like he had started to throw a punch at Burke’s nasty face. But then remembered where he was. 

Marcus Burke met Sir Thomas back with a blazing angered look of his own that made his dark eyes look evil.

_“Your Highness.”_

Burke sneered, before he turned on his heel and stormed quickly out of the room, taking great care to glare at Elizabeth for a long second before he did. His words relayed in her head as he glanced at her.

_“I’ll destroy him. And I’ll ruin you. He won’t take you if I'm the one to ruin you. No man will.”_

_Wicked monsters of men, indeed._ She thought to herself, as she had said to Sir Thomas earlier what drink was capable of doing to a man.

“We shall see ourselves out.”

Cecil grumbled, due to the drink he had taken at dinner, and the exertion of getting up, his cheeks were now rosy and he was grunting and grumbling as he moved. Lumbering across the room following in his sons wake.

“Miss Farrow. Sir Thomas.” Cecil greeted as he shuffled past them. Sir Thomas gave him a curt bow, his mouth a deadly serious unamused line.

As both her parents saw both Misters Burke into the hallway and out of the door, Sir Thomas wasted no time in softly grasping the hand that Burke had grabbed with such gentleness, it made her heart ache.

“Are you alright, Elizabeth? Did he hurt you?”

He asked, eyes sweeping over her face that had now softed into one of complete sympathy and understanding. But his second question was a waste of time, he had seen the pinched look cross her face and the shrinking indignance in her eyes to know that Burke had inflicted pain and upset upon her.

“I am fine. Really...” She insisted, but her heart was pounding and her wrist was burning, her body felt wrong and she wasn’t sure it would ever feel right again.

That was, until what he did next made her _know_ what feeling _right_ felt like in her own skin.

But he sought to make it tingle with nothing but pure pleasure, as he brought it up to his lips, and after shuffling her tight emerald sleeve down as far as he could, he pressed the gentlest kiss to the thrumming pulse in her lower arm, right at the place where Burke had assaulted her. His lips were soft and so incredibly gentle, the feel of the warm supple things brushing across her arm made her physically drain all the air from her lungs out her lips as they gaped. Her body felt alight, and desire was starting to creep in on swift wings and make her body perish with heat.

And all the while, as he kissed her, his mouth moving across to place two more across the underside of her wrist, his eyes kept contact with her own. And now they blistered with the promise of giving her such lust she knew not what.

And he nearly died on the spot too. Because her skin was milky white, and as soft as rose petals. And if that wasn't enough temptation to erode his resolve, her skin reeked _beautifully_ of lavender too. And it was warm, soft and pliant, and he then wished for his lips to meet and explore with every part of her.

She forgot her own name. where she was. The colour of her eyes, if she was standing, or if she was standing on _her head_ , even her own sisters name. because when he kissed her, there was little room for anything else to remain right side up in her brain. She had once considered herself to be quite lucid with words, and rather sensible if she said so herself.

But now, if she opened her mouth, she was sure there would be nothing but a jumbled mush of letters and vowels to spill out. And she was certain she would be an illiterate, stumbling, stuttering, buffoon of a girl.

That’s how powerfully potent his kisses were to her.

He lowered her arm and swiped one soft yet calloused thumb across the red welt that Burke had left her with. The recollections of it making him want to go and leave a similar welt on Burke’s own person. A _nice great big_  red welt across his face would do the trick. He thought. And it would feel nothing short of _heavenly_ , too.

He then placed both his hands about her own, grasping her soft little palm in both of his hands. Clutching it in front of them.

“I fear I must take my leave of you also, My Lady.”

He spoke in obvious resentment to the notion. And she found herself much feeling the same manner.

“With your blessing, Dear Elizabeth, and if your father would allow me, may I also call upon you tomorrow?” He asked.

She smiled wonderfully widely.

“Of course, Sir Thomas. I would be honoured.”

“It is I who should feel honoured. I am humbled that such a beauty as you should even look twice in my direction at a man such as I. I am your humble servant my lady.”

He spoke, placing another kiss to her hand in parting, Eyes terribly wonderful, and smile beseechingly kind.

It was at this point, that Sir Richard and Lady Sharpe re-entered the room. Elizabeth watched, biting down on the excitement that coursed through her as he crossed to them both.

“If I may, Sir Richard, Mrs Sharpe I should like to extend my infinite thanks for inviting me to Dinner this evening. I must say the beef wellington was quite the finest I have ever had, and the pleasure of your company for the evening was even more dleightful.”

He flattered, but he had meant it so heartily, no one dared to doubt him. Mrs Sharpe would certainly never _dare think_ of such a thing.

“You are most welcome in our home, anytime Sir.”

Richard Farrow beamed, grasping the young man’s hand. Clasping it in both of his in a gesture that conveyed he approved of Sir Thomas very much.

“If I may be so bold, Sir Richard, I would like to express my wish to call upon your daughter, Elizabeth, tomorrow at whatever time may best suit you, and her. She is quite the loveliest creature I have ever had the pleasure to behold.”

Elizabeth flushed.

Sir Richard smiled, and _smiled,_ and Mrs Sharpe placed a hand to her chest. Looking like she would burst into tears of joy.

“I whole-heartily give you my consent, Sir.” He spoke with a wizened wink and smile.

“But I daresay, after watching the two of you converse and meet tonight, I do not think, dear boy, that you’ll need it.” Sir Farrow spoke elgantly with a know it all smile.

He was quite good at this match making caper, he inwardly congratulated himself _. It was rather easy really…_ If Araminta ever gave him such fuss about it again, he would serve her this occasion as a _glowing_ example.

“You may call upon her at, Noon tomorrow?” Sir Richard asked, he peered over his shoulder to look at Elizabeth and see if the time was to her pleasing.

She grinned and nodded so hard, Sir Richard thought her head was liable _to bobble_ off her very shoulders.

“Excellent.” Sir Thomas bowed to them both

“I cannot express my thanks enough.” He smiled.

“I shall take my partings of your wonderful hospitality now.” He eased. But not before crossing to Elizabeth and kissing her hand one last time.

“The hours will seem years in your absence Miss Farrow.” He smiled.

She swallowed.

“I eagerly await your visit, Sir.”

She glowed back, her smile was a thing of pure beauty to him right at that moment. 

He finally tore his eyes and smile away from hers and moved out of sight into the hall as her parents showed him out, after Hawkins had fetched his hat, coat, gloves and cane.

And with one last “Good Evening.” He had parted.

Out down the front steps from Farrow house and into the cold, clear night air that he breathed in deep, smiling the stuff into his lungs as he clacked across the road.

It wasn’t a dangerous part of London to walk at night. He felt weightless, and happy. _So very_ Happy. He crossed the cobblestoned road and onto the opposite pavement.

Before he paused, stopped, turned, and looked back to the Farrow’s Home. Knowing what lovely amourous creatures were confined within it’s walls. Knowing he had found Miss Perfection. Found the woman he had waited for to wed all his life, and he couldn’t wait until he had Lady Elizabeth Farrow, as The Duchess of Chatsworth with a ring on her finger, by his side as _his_ _wife_.

And then he looked up, seeing the stars and galaxies that the night sky contained, much loving the feeling that he was an inconsequential speck on the planet, along with millions of others. But now,

_Oh, now._

Now he had found a woman whom he couldn’t wait to get to know, and cherish and love. And the best part was, he had not expected to leave Dinner tonight feeing this way. Miss Farrow was his lovely, life altering surprise. And how he _adored_ her.

He smiled as the stars winked at him. As if they were welcoming him for giving Sir Thomas the pleasure of knowing his one true love.

_“You’ll never run out of ways to surprise me, will you?”_

He spoke quietly. Speaking in a smile to god, if there was one.

And if there was not, then this was him sending out his little thanks into the cosmic void that was the starry night, just in case there was someone, out there, somewhere _, listening._ Then they could have his words of gratitude

He decided, as he banked his smile, and headed on home. _That God was very good to him, indeed._

 

_Make no mistake about it…_

 

 


	8. ~The Society Letters of Lady Jane Prideblight~

 

 

~

Well, Dearest Readers, this author has waited with baited breath, and now, as it was reported to her a mere moment ago, she waits no longer, and neither, by extension, do you, my dear readers, you may wait no longer to hears news fresh from within the events at Farrow House of which this author wrote so determinedly of just yesterday...

It appears now, my dears, as is was reported by staff (who shall remain un named) for purposes of discretion, that Sir Thomas Kenworthy, the Duke of Chatsworth, has divulged his inclinations to court Elizabeth Farrow! This author dare declare that they would do very well together indeed! A more suitable match this Author could not grant you. Miss Farrow has that certain air of something in her manner, and way of walking that associates very well with the manner of his Lordship. Who, he has declared will call and dote upon the flame haired young miss, the two have also returned their definite attendance to Lady Hartwright’s masquerade ball next Friday.

This author detects the starts of a delicious love triangle that is sure to blossom soon, as a consequence..

For it is also heard that Sir Cecil Burke and his Son, Sir Marcus Burke were seen having a very heated exchange of words in a curricle on the way home from the alleged Dinner where The Duke made the meeting of One already engaged, Miss Farrow.

This author dares say that Messrs Burke junior and senior are not a men which one would wish to trifle in the affairs of. This Duke better have a good wit about him, if he is to favour courting Elizabeth Farrow.

All this author can say, is that Marcus Burke is reputed to be no kind of decent gentleman, and that The Duke of Chatsworth ought have greater mettle about him, of he is to take on the man. Whom as we all know, is not to be parted lightly from his belongings.

We shall see, dear readers, as this author says, all in good time.

All, in _good,_ time.

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 4th ~

~


	9. Puerile Pests, Velvet Dresses, and Bathtimes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shorter than most, but for good reason... another following shortly after. and also, P.S. couldn't resist including a picture of the gown Elizabeth wears to receive Sir Thomas and Mr Burke.
> 
> I just find Victorian gowns so utterly beautiful! especially this one.
> 
>  
> 
> \- author  
> x

 

  

 

 

>  

 

 

Elizabeth was nicely tucked into her bed, happily and much to the relief of her lungs, she had gladfully been able to take the torso crushing emerald silk dress off and slid into her far more comfortable white laced nightdress. She doesn’t even remember getting into bed. Nor the blissful feel of cool crisp bedsheets atop her butter soft matress, and she had barely lain her smiling head down onto her cushiony featherdown pillow before she had been tugged, without fuss or recollection, deep into the swirling black pit of a deep dream.

She entered a world all entirely of her own design, where there was no such men as the foul mouthed and mannered Burke, no such thing as grey London rain, and everyday was sunshine and galore. And where she could also spend her time feeling like she could be completely free of all such obligations that shackled her. Where Mrs Sharpe would not chide her for eating what she liked, reading what she pleased and acting in a manner that young ladies ought not. Where every day was one long stretch of bliss. Because she remembered that Sir Thomas Kenworthy had appeared like an absolute angel as she slept, floating through her head like the finest sweetest vision of a man that he was. Those sinfully blue eyes examining her with a twinge of love about them, his smile handsomely wide as he stared at her, waves of his ink coloured hair brushing back, reaching the nape of his neck, and swinging into his eyes as he smiles at her, and to her alone. She didn’t want any other girl to be the lucky recipient of his breathtaking smile. She dreamt she could do such things as stroking her hand down the side of his carved jawbone, before leaning close and softly pressing the delicate curve of her lips to his. And the subsequent delight that swept through her, as she envisioned their faces, foreheads and lips touching, molded in passion. It was quite the loveliest sight she had ever been privy too.

Better than pleasant sunshine in may, better than the flawless treacle tarts from the bakery on primrose hill, the scent of freshly cut roses, and better than damn near _all_ the things in her life that she deemed perfect already.

She watches as his hand wraps around her waist to ease her closer, his other hand cradling her supple neck as he had to have more of her. Had to touch her in a way that let her know much he _adored_ her. She found herself arching and curling closer into his lean body as the kiss intensified, the desire and flaring passion trebling between them. Elizabeth sighed softly in her sleep, curling into the pillow next to her, rolling over in the large double bed, easing onto the pillow next to her own. She smiled, unknowingly at the scenario that was playing out in her mind. As she was not conscious, she was not privy to the fact that it would be deemed _most_ improper. She cared not one jot, she just carried on dreaming about kissing the Handsome Duke of Chatsworth. Atleast, that was until Mrs Sharpe crossed silently to her curtains, padding across the carpets in Elizabeth’s room, and throwing them open to throw a square of bright unfiltered sunshine straight onto her sleeping form. The young woman grumbled, jolted away from the enchanting feel of the Duke’s lips in her dream, and plonked back down into the substandard triteness of reality.

Elizabeth groaned, rolling over in her sleep, shoving her knotted red hair under her pillow and keeping the covers pulled high, tenting across her eyes.

“None of that Libby, you have a most busy day ahead of you. We have yet to receive _two_ gentleman callers by lunchtime and just beyond, and you may not do as such from your bedchamber, _heaven forfend_ , Nessie, draw the _gel_ a bath…”

Araminta instructed, her tone more nasal and grating than its usual tone that Libby cared to remember it as. Perhaps that’s because it was the first sound to assault Elizabeth’s senses at this ungodly hour in the morning. Her ears had not yet _atuned_ to the day.

“What time is it?”

Elizabeth asked, her lips smoshed into the pillow below her face, all Mrs Sharpe could see was the back of the young lady’s tangled auburn curls as the rest of her was burrowed under the covers alike that of a hibernating bunny in winter.

However, as most of her speech was muffled by the pillow, all Araminta could pick up was a faint grumble that sounded akin to;

“ _Whharrrrrrttiimiisssssitttt?_ ”

Mrs Sharpe rolled her eyes as Nessie padded across the room to the en-suite, cooing a greeting to the decidely grumpy form of her friend who was still slumped abed. Nessie had been up out of bed wide awake and spritely as soon as the clock struck 6. Elizabeth, it was safe to say, was _not_ a morning person. And that trait was one which _vexed_ Mrs Sharpe greatly.

“Morning Libs.” She called sweetly.

“gooowaaayyyy” Elizabeth cranked from under her curtain of coiled hair

“Charming.”

The young maid retorted, scoffing, her smile cheeky and wide as she pushed her hand to the washroom door handle and shoved it inwards, to begin filling her steaming hot bath.

“As to your interest in the time, Elizabeth, it is a quarter past seven, and about time you rose yourself from that bed.” Mrs Sharpe insisted, crossing to the bed and jabbing her stepdaughter in the side.

Elizabeth rather thought she’d be inclined to bite or snap at her in a minute. One, because her prodding was most annoying, and second, because she had disturbed Elizabeth from a _rather lovely_ , dream. She couldn’t remember all that much, but she had _been kissing_ Sir Thomas, that much she did know.

It was at this point, that suddenly, barelling little footsteps thudded their quiet way from down the hall, and thundered into her room. And Elizabeth felt a small little weight throw themselves onto her bed, shoving her in the side harder and faster than that of Mrs Sharpe. Araminta’s touch was gentle and careful, this was not. This thing was jabbing painfully into her ribs with small little hands that were as sharp as pencils, relentlessly poking with absolute undettered ferocity.

“Feliiiicciitteerr.” Libby snarled, her tone warning her as to what level of pain she’d inflict on the little midge when she was able to open her eyes.

“Libby! _Wake up!_ You have to _wake up!_ You have to tell me what the Duke is like! Mrs Sharpe says he’s _quite_ the _handsomest_ man ever to offer to court you! Is that _true?_ Is he _so terribly amiable_? Mrs Sharpe says _so!_ If you get married will you be a _Duchess?_ _And can I_ come and stay with you at your country manor?”

Libby’s head spun with the endless torrent of enquiries. It was _quarter past seven_ in the morning, for _heavens sake._ These insanely, _destestfully_ awake, people should all be back in their own beds and not here, _bothering_ her. God Knows Felicity should be in her own room, in much the same state.

 _Especially_ Felicity. The _irking little bug_ , that she was.

“Who let the _tiny vexation i_ nto my room?”

Elizabeth growled into her pillow, throwing it away from her face, and peering back through strands of mussed and entangled red hair. Squinting from one eye into the harsh sunlight that flooded onto her bed. But trying to glare half heartedly at the little grinning, brown eyed, wide awake face of her sibling that was leering over at her, sprawled on the bed close to her big sister. Grinning as if it was going out of fashion.

“ _Heavens_ , Felicity, even _I_ couldn’t answer all those questions..” Mrs Sharpe observed under her breath. The girl had rattled off about seventeen questions in one single breath. That remark truly showing how lengthy Felicity’s questions were if even Araminta's rambling stride could not match them.

That was no mere thing, _indeed._

Elizabeth groaned. _Deeply_. As she rolled onto her back to look up at the canopy of the bed above her. Her groan was a sound that was quite an undertstatement as to her annoyance regarding the gathering that half of the household had decided to host in her room in the small, not to _mention rude_ , hours of the morning.

“Up.”

Mrs Sharpe ordered. In a brusque, I-shan’t-be-taking-any-nonsense-today, command that would have made the Duke of Wellington quake in his boots, and spur to immediately obey. She crossed to Libby’s wardrobe and pulled the doors open, trying to select which one of her best dresses she must put on to receive her callers.

Elizabeth gave Felicity a glare as her sibling wrenched the bed covers off her sister from her spot perching on the corner of her bed, and the cool air of her room permeated the heated cocoon of cover’s which had warmed her all night.

Elizabeth pointed a finger at her sisters smug features, which were still grinning stupidly, and snarled with a voice like poison;

“Much more from you this morning, you _infuriating_ _tick_ , and I will not hesitate in _thwacking_ you one.” She warned.

“Now, Now…”

Mrs Sharpe chided from inside Elizabeths wardrobe. Should she be dressed in the scarlet laced gown which made her skin look most pale? Or the Velevet blue that made her eyes and hair most pretty indeed?

Felicity pointed her tongue at her elder sister. Who threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, touching her feet to the floor, her long hair at the back of her head all mussed where she had lain her head in the night. And where the long length of it was unbound, spilled down reaching just halfway down her back, a long jumble of fiery flame curls which most men wanted to discover the length of, for she had hair long enough for any elegant chignon, but they had all wanted to see it unbound. To see for themselves how it would make her look like a wild and un-tamed woman. Especially also if she didn’t sport her cold cream, or the rouge on her cheeks, that way they would also know that underneath it, she had a spackling of barely visible freckles all across her nose. A matter which she looked far too sultry without, along with her sunset coloured hair, and eyes the colour of bluebells.

Libby sighed, deciding she should tackle atleast some of Felicity’s searching requests into the Sir Thomas’s appearance.

“Yes Felicity..” She sighed. “He was most likeable. I can’t remember ever having met a more good-humoured or genial man in all my life.” Elizabeth spoke through a yawn.

She grunted as she stood and tugged on her white cotton dressing gown, which would most likely be inside out. But never the matter, she trudged over to her wash basin and jug on the dresser on the far side of the room, and after tipping a splash of lukewarm water into the bowl, dipped her wascloth into the warm water, lathered it over a few times with her honey and lily soap, before wiping it across her face. The warmth and wetness helping her ease into the land of the living.

“I can’t wait to see him. Mrs Sharpe says if he is to take tea here then I ought join you..” Felicity beamed.

Elizabeth, who had been drying her face with a scented towel, lowered it at Felicity’s words, after having dabbed her face dry. To look to her sister in an expression of utter dismay and with all the impending gloom as if she had just been informed that the world was going to end, before she looked across to Araminta. The apprehensive doom present on her face not having faded away.

“Does the Duke wish to make social contact with quite the most puerile pest in all of England?”

Elizabeth asked Mrs Sharpe, who smiled widely at Elizabeth’s wit. She’d allow her that wry comment, just so long as she didn’t repeat the sentiment in front of the gentlemen later on.

Elizabeth smiled as Felicity’s mouth dropped open, and she grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at her sister. The thing landed two metres shy of Libby’s toes. Her aim was decidely _below par_ aswell.

“ A most honourable attempt, Felicity.”

Mrs Sharpe sighed. As if she should be more horrified that her stepchildren were engaging in throwing bedding about the room, but honestly, they’d done _worse_ in their younger years.

“I hope you rethink your manners this afternoon, when we receive Sir Thomas, I don’t think a man as lofty as he would wish to remain in the company of a pest, let alone a pest with such a very poor throwing arm.” Mrs Sharpe smiled.

Felicity’s features turned most stroppily indignant at Araminta’s words.

Her brown eyes turned into two piqued bronze coins, polished with her anger. Elizabeth could see that Nessie had already dressed the girls hair. It was pinned into a soft arrangement of chestnut curls that were piled neatly onto her head. What Felicity resented most about her complexion though, was the fact that where her sisters pleasing pale complexion could be enhanced by her cold cream, Felicity’s could not. She had much darker freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks, the colour of such, no cream could conceal. But, she had a prettiniess about her that was decidely elfin like, she was petite and ever so slight, and her hair was just a notch below the fiery shade of her sisters. Everything about her, Felicity always noticed, was always half as pretty as her sister.

But where Elizabeth was demure and genteel, Felicity _was not_ ,

- _never had been, and ever would be_ – Elizabeth felt _inclined_ to _add_.

She was loud, cheeky and noted as being an outrageously _despicable flirt_. She had gotten in trouble enough times at parties, sneaking off to kiss some silly willed boy on the cheek before giggling and running off to rejoin the party once more. She was dressed today in a gown of mid length sleeves, both trimmed with scalloped white lace about the scooped neck and the sleeves that ended at her elbows. Her bust wasn’t quite full yet, But both Elizabeth and Mrs Sharpe assured her she’d fill it out to her own pleasing size soon enough. Her gown was a minty, sea foam green colour, made of taffeta, and the shade did a lot for her coppery eyes, Libby thought.

Elizabeth smiled, as did Mrs Sharpe as she brought out a dress of crushed velvet blue from Elizabeth’s wardrobe, and walked across with it, laying it on the bed and instructing her to wear her finest blue silk whaleboned corset, and after instructing Nessie through the washroom doorway to tie it as tight as it would go when she helped dress her, she turned to Libby.

“Be liberal with the soap on your hair and body Elizabeth, I will not have you skimp any steps for the Duke. Heaven knows he might overlook that _damned_ wit of yours if you smell twice as heavenly as a bed of roses…” She pointed a finger at the woman.

“He remarked last night to quite have a _favouring_ for my wit, I’ll have you know Mrs Sharpe.” Libby smiled widely, beaming nearly, stroking a hand down her gown…

It was one of her best gowns. It was a deep blue midnight velvet colour, the skirts were not too cumbersome, and it was, arguably, one of her favourites, it had little bows adorning each half sleeve, and Mrs Sharpe informed her it made her eyes and hair colour become most brilliant when she wore it.

“In that case, _Lord_ save us _all_.”

She remarked to the ceiling, those huge butterscotch coloured eyes rolling back in her head in discontentment like a pair of marbles, as she planted her hands on her hips in a manner most matronly. Stood partially out of the room in the hallway.

“Come on Felicity, best we leave your sister to it. She has a _Duke_ to prepare for, _don’t you know_ …”

Mrs Sharpe encouraged, watching as Felicity scowled and climbed off her bed, huffing as she eased her mint green skirts out of the way as she crawled across Elizabeth’s matress.

“ _Oh,_ I nearly forgot to enquire. Pray tell me, Elizabeth, does the Duke or Mr Burke have a younger, and I daresay, look alike, brother?”

Her eyes and smile dreadfully naughty and her tone one that made Mrs Sharpe close her eyes in extremely great irritation, disapproval and around about 12 other things that surfaced when Felicity sought to speak. Clearly not thinking before she opened her mouth.

Elizabeth did nothing but raise a sceptic and regally arched auburn brow, and her smile twitched in imprecise humour.

Her blue eyes then flickered behind Felicity’s short frame, to Mrs Sharpe, behind her.

“Never mind just England, Mrs Sharpe..” She began.

“I think we can now boast that here stands the silliest girl in the entirety of the British Empire.” Libby remarked dryly.

Mrs Sharpe had to nearly, quite literally, drag Felicity out by her shoulder as she lunged for another pillow to lob at her sister’s head. Luckily Libby was able to retreat to the safety of her washroom as Nessie began to make the bed. Both women smiling at her jape.

 

~

 

After she had bathed herself, and had clutched onto her bedpost so hard, she swore her nails dug cresent shaped little marks that carved deep into the wood, Nessie had been particularly brutally handed with her corset strings this morning (It brought Atilla The Hun or some other vicious viking to mind). So much so, Elizabeth now feared her insides had all been relocated and shuffled slightly south to her feet. The corset _squeezing_ everything somewhat out of place.

After that torture was over, and her blue gown laced up over the vexatious and not to mention, _painful_ , device. She had been forced onto her vanity chair and had nearly every coil of her hair felt like it was being pulled from her scalp as Nessie twisted and tamed it into a fine array of finger toyed red curls. Spilling back beautifully from her elegantly pointed and pretty face. Of which Elizabeth was busy layering with cold cream, aswell as darkening her lashes and rouging her cheeks. She found all she now need do was apply some very small, yet elegant sapphire earbobs in her ears. Looking at her reflection and sighing, she had been indeed, she fears, _too liberal_ with her soaps and oils in the bath. Now, she reeked of lavender, honey and lilies, as Nessie had remarked that she stunk worse than the inside of a flower shop. And She was quite sure she had layered a very decent amount of cold cream to the dark bags under her eyes. – She blamed Mrs Sharpe and Felicity for those.

Elizabeth’s blue eyes roved all over her face, looking for any imperfections. But, to her she had never been all entirely pleased with her features. Her eyes were, well. Alright. They served their purpose as eyes. What more could she say? Her lips, to her judgement, a fine colour on their own. But she felt they were too small, and thin. Her mouth not quite in proportion with her face. She felt her eyes were a tad too large. Which made her nose appear more pointed. Her father always insisted however, she’d been given a nose by a wandering group of little pixies. It certainly had a sort of button shaped, waiflike daintiness to it. It brought to mind elves and nymphs. She wiggled her tiny nose from side to side. Not now scrutinising her facial details, she was just pulling funny faces into the looking glass.

She saw Nessie lean down behind her, the too big chest of her beige service gown, with a white laced trim gaping slightly. She also had a white apron tucked about her waify waist. The girl was damn lucky she didn’t have to perform house duties wearing corests like the one’s Elizabeth had to be caged into each morning, but she could just imagine that the undainty, quite sylphlike figure that Nessie had, and the fact she was almost twice as stubborn as herself, meant she would probably never have to endure the ill fate, and she certainly wouldn’t take it lying down either. Libby watched, keeping still as Nessie slid the last hair grip in place and deeming that her hair – torture – was done with. Libby watched as the maids own dirty blond locks, and oval shaped face appeared in the mirror behind her. Her hand to the back of Elizabeth’s shoulder, and her green eyes shining with excitement at her. Elizabeth placed her hand atop Nessies, which lay on her soft velvet blue shoulder.

“Do I look pleasing enough do you think?” She asked, Brows drawn together.

Nessie grinned.

“What are you talking about Farrow, that’s some of my best work, that is…” She explained, touching the back of Elizabeth’s bundle of coiffed red hair.

Libby laughed. That brilliant white smile, and the intoxicating sound of her lovely laugh, that Nessie had a feeling the Duke was _half_ in love with already.

“M’am. If he has got any sense about him whatsoever, he’ll whisk you into his arms, carry you off into the sunset and make you the Duchess of Kenworthy faster than Mrs ol’ Sharpe would be able to _object_ or _understand it_. And if he don’t leave this house not completely _besotted_ with ya, then I’ll _eat me_ own sunday hat.” She grinned, placing both hands on her friends velvet shoulders and smiling to the point that Elizabeth thought her lips would fall off.

“Well then.” She summarised, standing up and starting to head downstairs in dire need of a pot of tea.

“I suppose that’s as good as I can hope for.” She smiled and she headed out her door and down the hall. Smiling at Nessie as she departed.

 

~

Elizabeth shut the Informal dining room door after she entered it. It was the room just off the orangery at the back of the townhouse. They only used the Dining room for formal dinners with company present, the family themselves ate in the breakfast room two times a day, they all generally took lunch in whatever places they all seperately pleased. Which usually meant Mrs Sharpe took hers in the orangery, Libby and Felicity the informal dining room, and Mr Farrow, often at his desk in his study, or in the upstairs library. Dinner and Breakfast were often Elizabeth’s favourite times of day at home, for she could converse freely with every one of her family members (which often left Felicity and Mrs Sharpe gabbling eagerly about gossip, and Elizabeth and her father talking about politics and how much they detested the social savagery of the ton)

She smiled to see her father peer down from his paper, from this vantage point all she could see was the top of his head, the bottom half of his face shielded by the Times. All she could make out was his thinning white hair and his half moon spectacles perched on his nose. The corners of his eyes crinkled and creased tight as she entered, and she knew Richard farrow enough to know he was smiling when that happened.

“Morning Elizabeth.”

He smiled as she walked in and eased herself across to him.

“Morning Papa.”

She answered, smiling back, accepting the Arts and Leisurely section of the Times he held out for her. She crossed ever closer to the man and kissed him upon the head. It was also most uncommon for young ladies to be as close as Libby was to her Father. Yet, Libby _adored_ her own Father, Richard Farrow to absolute _pieces_. He had been a much beloved steady influence in her growing up, victorian fathers only saw their daughters at gatherings outside of their home. Making an appointment to pay for her gowns and her various other fripperies, but after that, having little interest in the girl except when it came time to see her wed.

Richard Farrow _had never_ been such a terrible stranger of a Father to his daughters in that way....

He had gone to dressmakers and been perfectly agonised over the numerous number of colour swatches for gowns. He had been dragged through nearly every milliner's in London, and been to every silly society ball that he dared attend to appease his two elegant Farrow ladies.

He doted upon his girls dearly, - perhaps favoured Libby’s sense as that of his own _a trifle_ more ( _but only a very very slight trifle_ ) when compared to Felicity’s _daftness_  – but he never made Felicity feel she was _unloved._ He was immensely proud of each of the different young women his daughters had grown into. Even though his youngest still had a little way to go, His eldest would always serve as a radiant example.

As she moved to sit down, she noticed Mrs Sharpe was smiling in self satisfaction at her stepdaughter’s appearance.

 _The Duke would be a fool indeed to not be swayed romantically by the way she looked this morning. She knew Elizabeth Farrow had not been so beautiful for nothing..._ Araminta thought

And if the Duke, Sir Thomas Kenworthy did not leap up and confess he was quite in love with her by the end of his visit, _only_ then she would confess she _did not know_ society men.

She thought to herself. Sipping her tea with a small smile. Indeed, as Elizabeth walked past Araminta as she sat at the head of the table, that as she was almost quite _literally smacked_ in the face with a wall of fragrance, honey, lillies and lavender, that the gel had taken her instructions _most s_ eriously.

That pleased her further also. She sipped again on her tea, smile evidently wider than it had been before.

Elizabeth seemed to notice this. Mrs Sharpe was grinning like an absolute frothing _lunatic_ into her teacup.

 _Probably plotting her match making strategy just in case today turns sour._ Libby thought.

She blinked the thought away, and eased herself further onto the seat, manouvering her skirts to better sit down, placing the folded section of the paper down next to the empty plate in front of her, Wishing Hawkins a good morning as she crossed to her, just as she picked up her linen napkin and moved to then fold it across her lap.

“Just a _very large_ pot of strong tea please, Hawkins, and an even bigger teacup if you would. My stomach hasn’t the spirit for breakfast as of yet. The tea will be enough for now.” She smiled. He bowed and muttered his staple ‘of course’ to the woman.

Libby smiled, only to then look up and find that Felicity was glowering at her from across the table. Frowning in her direction as she munched noisily and grumpily on a corner of her toast, a half empty cup of tea by her side, glaring at Libby over her plate of coddled eggs.

Elizabeth’s hand that held her napkin thudded down onto her lap, as she tilted her head to her kid sister, inaudibly asking her what was wrong now…

“Don’t give me that innocent searching look, Libby. You know perfectly well _why_ I am not _talking to_ you..” She leered nastily over the table

“Only that your statement is now _quite incorrect_. Felicity, as you are, this very second, I hate to point out, _talking to me_.” She japed, wisely.

Richard Farrow chuckled behind his paper. Her wit was rapier sharp. _Sir Thomas would not have a dull wife on his hands…_

Felicity growled. Elizabeth knew with practiced repetition what that sound meant, and what undoubtedly followed it, in 5,4,3,2,1….

“ _Papa_!” Felicity shrieked.

“Here we go.”

Libby moaned inwardly. She could have counted it down on her fingers for accuracy.

“Earlier Elizabeth said I was not the silliest girl in all of England, _but_ the silliest in the whole of the _British Empire. AND_ , she barely told me anything about the Duke of Chatsworth! Which _is jolly unfair_ and I want her to apologize for _her rude_ words!” She rambled.

Sir Farrow thought it best to fold down his paper and truly take in his youngest’s scrambled words, spoken faster than the speed of sound in one long unintelligable emotive screech.

“Is this of any truth, Libby?”

Richard Farrow asked kindly. He was rarely a man whose temper flared. He’d leave emotional rants to his wife and his youngest.

He watched as Elizabeth’s smile grew, but she tried to force it not too.

“Yes, every word of it true." She admitted.

Sir Richard was silent for a moment before he gave answer. 

“A brilliant truth my darling, wise words indeed.”

He winked, congratulating her. as that was all he had to exclaim. His pride at her insult.

Elizabeth threw her head back and chuckled as two complaints came at Richard Farrow in unison, one from his right, and from his wife down the other end of the table

There came a _“PAPA!”_ from an even more angered Felicity.

And a squawking _“RICHARD!”_ from his wife, Araminta.

“You always side with Libby, just because you love _her_ more than _me_!” Felicity screeched in sulking.

“I was here on the planet first, Felicity, It only follows that I have a higher status in fondess than you. I’ve been around for longer.”

Libby smiled, sipping her tea as Hawkins had appeared with the pot, telling her he had let it steep in the kitchen, which she now took a sip of. The heat making her teeth ache. And it was wonderfully strong enough for her. She conveyed this to Hawkins. Stating how no other Butler in London could make a pot of tea finer than him. feeling it warm deep in her belly.

“Your such a..” Felicity started.

Elizabeth smiled cooly at her sister, which vexed Felicity greatly, she had the gall to raise a patronising perfectly arched brow across to her.

But Mrs Sharpe’s clattering teacup back down into her saucer, and her hand placed upon her chest and following words made Felicity halt in whatever abuse she had been about to hurl at her Sister.

“Felicity, Elizabeth, _please_. You are worse than your Father for grating so upon my brittle nerves. Both of you _be quiet_!” She snapped softly.

“Both of them are so alike you, Richard!” She told her smiling husband off as the man chuckled.

“You know not what I suffer with my spasms, you have no compassion for them one jot!” She accused.

“You mistake me most greatly my dear. They’ve been my dearest and _only_ companion all these six years of our marriage.”

He grinned, his blue eyes jovial with teasing, and up went the paper over his face again.

Mrs Sharpe spluttered and cursed him under her breath. Asking Hawkins for one of her calming tonics. For she could feel her flutterings and swirling pains threaten to begin all over her.

Elizabeth smiled til her lips hurt, into her cup of tea.

Felicity, now having finished her breakfast. Sat, face sulky, and arms crossed over her chest.

Elizabeth sighed in a smile at her.

“Felicity. I aplogize for my comments, they were most unkind of me. And as for the matter of information about the Duke of Chatsworth, I needn’t disclose them to you myself…” She began

Felicity twitched her head sharply in her sister’s direction.

“.. You may ask him a limitless string of questions yourself when he recieves me later…” Elizabeth smiled.

Felicity grinned. Her mood improved, and their silly argument forgotten.

And it would have been swept aside anyway, for Hawkins re-entered the room. In his hands he carried a large, _a very large_ , vase of pure white and ivory coloured roses. And it should be no surpise that he walked directly to Elizabeth with a smile, and stood them down on the table next to her. Also handing her a little slip of an envelope to go with it.

“These arrived for you just now, Miss. With express wishes as from the Duke of Chatsworth, Sir Thomas, whom, as I understand, picked the flowers himself in his very person, and hand wrote the note..” He told her.

Elizabeth smiled, her gulp of tea thudding down her oesophagus in a hot disjointed swallow.

She thanked Hawkins in a raspy squeak and tore open the envelope and began to read.

 

_Miss Elizabeth,_

_I am far too much a praising and honest gentleman to declare that the words below are of my own design. And you are far too lovely and well read to know that they are as such. For the sake of my poetic dignity - or what little there is of it – I shall not pen you verses or sonnets, until I am confident that they would to justice to your remarkable beauty. Untill such a time comes, I can only offer you my most sincere adoration, and the words below that follow my amourous wishes to court you:_

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.    If this be error and upon me proved,    I never writ, nor no man ever loved._

_I cannot wait to call upon you my lady. To see your sweet splendour once more, I hope will put an end to the torture I suffer. But let it be known I suffer gladly for you. Dearest Libby._

_With everlasting affection,_

_Your Sir Thomas Kenworthy._

Elizabeth and Mrs Sharpe both clasped a hand to their chests after having read it. It left Libby quite without breath. They were quite the _nicest_ thing she had ever been spoiled with.

Mr Farrow smiled in self satisfaction that he was such an excellent match maker.

And Felicity twirled _actual_ rings around her sister, declaring that at the sight of her red flushed cheeks, that she was, _very much_ , in fanciful _love_ with Sir Thomas Kenworthy.

And it was damned uncanny, that. It was a turning point for Felicity’s ever prevailing daftness...

 

Because Elizabeth knew that it was one of the first occasions where Felicity Farrow, was not at all _wrong._

 

_In any way whatsoever..._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and, btw, I never knew this until I looked it up, but Victorians believed that certain flowers have meanings. So when Thomas sends Elizabeth a bouquet of thorn-less white roses, he is in fact, saying, "Love at first sight, early attachment, gratitude, and simply, I love you. Please let me be worthy of you" Whereby we compare that to Burke giving her tulips, which mean "I think you are perfect" and nothing of love.... hmmmmmn, interesting, no? - all about symbolism, dear readers... bare that in mind...


	10. Luncheon, Bruised Shins and Rogueish Rakes...

 

 

 

~ Benedict Carlton ~

 

~ Sir Thomas's Attire ~

 

~ Sir Thomas ~

 

 

* * *

 

 

~

 

In a breakfast room across town, at a later time, in fact, just a fair few streets away from Montague Street, on Bloomsbury Way, sat what was _very evidently_ a Bachelor’s lodging’s.

Sir Benedict Carlton’s pristinely white marbled townhouse stood proudly among a row of others that lined the pavements. Similarly to the Farrow Household, the breakfast room was occupied, except in this residence, it was occupied by a singular person. That person was Sir Thomas Kenworthy.

Who sat alone at the large dining table, a pot of still steeping tea in front of him, as he penned his correspondence to Iris.

He liked to keep her abreast of his activities in town, and was just scratching across the paper with a fountain pen, that he had _quite possibly_ found a woman who would serve splendidly as the Duchess of Chatsworth. Usually, it would have been considered strange for a brother to confess such a personal thing to his sister, but after the death of her husband, and Thomas leaping into the picture to support Iris, Judith and Edith, He and Iris had become very close indeed.

Iris bore looks much alike that of her brother, the same milk skinned complexion, with skin that looked like it had been crafted from a chunk of marble. Except hers had all the splendour and supple beauty that a radiant woman of her mid 30’s had about her. Whereas Thomas was simply remarked to be _ethereal_ looking, something which he always found rather far fetched, himself. Iris also had a set of eyes that closely mirrored the own brilliance of his, except hers reminded him of a bolt of lightning, her cerulean orbs mingled with a striking silver grey to them. Which her abundant and thick waves of Raven’s black hair made stand out all the more on her pale, gently shaped, face. She had softly sloped cheekbones like that of her brothers sharp ones, and a fuller set of heart shaped lips which Thomas would try his best to make smile, to take away the misery that oft lingered in her generous eyes because of the tradgedy of loosing her beloved husband, John Nathaniel Thatcher in the war.

Thomas always supposed he felt guilty for such a thing, he had fought and battled his way through more than the russian enemy and still limped home to tell the tale, John however, had not. He had suffered graver injuries that sought not to heal, and a fever claimed his life shortly after. Thomas felt rotten when he heard the news. John was only stationed a mere mile away from his own camp, he should have made sure he was properly attended to before he returned home.

Iris had watched the two men she loved most in the world, uniformed and dressed, dissapear down Chatsworth drive to go to war, and what came back through it, was her brother and a mere letter that confirmed her worst nightmare. Thomas had tortured himself for months after for not helping save John. Iris mourned, but showed her brother that the blame could not be laid on him. If he wanted to be mad at anything, then the Russian army would be a more _wise_ venture. And the bond that drew them close thereafter had remained strong ever since.

Then there was Judith and Edith. Edith was now ten and six years old, and would soon be able to make her way out into society if she so chose to. Edith was a terribly soothing girl, much like a miniature version of her mother. She had a calm and tender temperament, and was so placid for a girl of her age, that this often caused Thomas to muse to her that she was an old soul, because she was nowhere near as pesky as she ought be compared to other ten and six aged debutantes he had the awful task of being introudced too.

She too, had the same lily white skin, silky, coal hued, thick hair. Except Edith’s eyes were like her fathers, almond shaped ash grey eyes which sparkled with such wisdom that reached beyond her years. She also had a willowy, yet substantial flare to her body shape, again, mirroring that of his sister’s.

But her second child, Edith, was quite the veritable little surprise of the family. She had been born with a headful of bouncy buttery blond curls. Which nobody knew where she had got them from. John, had a headful of plain brown hair, and it certainly hadn’t come from Thomas or Iris’s jet black colouring.

But, everyone adored Edith, being only just five, had not quite grasped reality yet. Nor, Thomas noted, had she learnt that one _filtered_ what they spoke out of their mouth before saying it aloud. Alas, Judith had not been gifted with such a feature. But she was extraordinarily amusing, always had a tiny toothless little grin to flash at everyone, who would be enchanted by her cornflower blue eyes that were huge and as captivating as that of a cute little puppy. Subsequently Thomas could never deny his little poppet anything, because she’d just have to blink those wet blue doe eyes up at him, and his resolve would crumple like a house of cards.

Judith was his little ray of sunshine (because of her sun coloured locks) and her chirpy demeanour, and Edith was his duplicate-Iris, as he liked to call her. And Iris was more his best friend than his sister. _His girls_ , and how he adored each single one of them in spades.

Well, _then_ there was Great Aunt Ophelia.

She was as mad as a hatter, and then some. She was his and Iris’s grandmothers sister. Some far off mad lineage of Kenworthys, dating back to 1066, _or beyond_. His relatives, she informed him, had probably been the men and women who were responsible for _populating mankind,_ she _had him know._

Thomas winced at the thought.

No wonder all the families elderly members, deep in the recesses of senility, were all completely _barking_ mad and eccentric. Mental Illness didn’t just, _run_ , through his family. It _galloped_ through with as much noise as it could muster, glaring with flamboyance at the top of its lungs – _with brass knobs and all the whistles and bells on._

Because every great relative he had, was positively, unarguably, _batty_ , like her. She only wore blue the third Wednesday every month, had a pet parrot called Fidget, who could squawk the alphabet, and whom she had also taught to sing _indecent_ limmericks, and kept her husband - great Uncle Percy’s – ashes in an old teapot and would delight in the fact that when anyone asked her what was in it. She’d reply in Queen’s english

“ _My Husband_. Sir Percival Warren Durrack Ridley Clifford Anthony Thompson Ridgeworthy, the Third. _Earl_ of _Salisbury you know…_.”

Then she would peek into the teapot, by slightly lifting the lid and peering in. muttering under her breath for a moment. Before straightening up, and concluding to the poor soul who she was accosting with her insanity;

“..And he _doesn’t wish_ to speak to _you_.”

Before flouncing off, teapot cradled under her arm. Fidget squawking away 'What should we do with the Drunken Sailor' on her shoulder. Presumably tottering away to do something _completely barmy_.  And Sir Thomas _daren’t ever_ ask what.

She was the kind of old biddy who made Thomas clap his hand over his face and sigh most despondently whenever they had guests. She’d always find some derranged way of startling them and declaring how she had absolutely _no heed_ to the fact she had no longer got any of her sensible wits about her – _they probably deserted her sometime during the normandy invasion_ , he would add drily in his head. _Heaven knows how long that old dinosaur aged relative of his had been walking the earth for. Since the Big Bang_ , he thought.

They had had the Earl of Carlise stay for a couple of weeks with them last year, an old family friend, and Ophelia made her usual mischief by putting eight pairs of her false teeth between his _bedsheets_. The poor man had been frightened half to death as he slid his toes into bed that night. When Thomas had confronted her the following morning at breakfast, angrily so, asking her why. She simply blinked, carried on eating her marmalade toast – laced with crushed up peppermint sweets, and said to him;

“That is where _they live_.”

With a tut and a roll of her mad eyes, as if he was the most foolish boy in the world for asking her such _ridiculous_ outlandish questions.

Sir Thomas had said nought in reply, just listened to the sound of Iris tittering behind her napkin the other side of the breakfast table. He had turned, on his heels, and marched right out of the room and straight to his study to down a glass of whiskey.

He shook his mind off his very _loopy_ Great Aunt. As he had been thinking of his family back home, his hand had paused on his second page of letters to Iris. There now sat a substantial blob of ink on what he had been about to write. He was attempting to describe Elizabeth Farrow in words, to her. To try and do her goddess like beauty justice in words, was no easy thing. He found he had used the word ‘divinity’ so often to describe her sultry looks, that he dare feared he was making it seem redundant now.

He sighed and put his pen down, flexing his fingers across his lips. He was beaming when he even _thought_ of Elizabeth Farrow. Her luscious smile, her lovely eyes. Her wonderful hips and the red hair that he wanted to twine his fingers into. She made him feel blissful, and _not any_ other woman had _ever_ done that to him. He hoped she liked the roses he had ventured out early this morning to procure them for her. And it had taken him next to no time to pen down the note. He had always enjoyed reading and writing, and as such often took enjoyment in poetry and penning down a few things from time to time. Not that he’d ever show anyone. He wondered if she had received the flowers yet? And he beamed. The thought that he had caused her to smile, and the fact that he _knew_ that, was such a terribly fine thing, it made his heart sing with happiness.

He reached for his teacup with a smile, bringing it to his lips and downing a great mouthful. It was hot enough that it made his mouth ache slightly. But that was how he liked it, he couldn’t _stand_ tepid tea.

It was then that he heard an almighty _THUD_ clump to the floorboards above him. Followed by a muffled _‘Aacck’_ the deep timbre of the voice quite obviously belonging to his lazy house mate. It was nearly half past eleven now, it seems his slobbenly friend had elected to grace the world with his presence, and drag his limbs out of bed, _at last._ Finally having grown bored of the inside of his eyelids, and probably, Thomas thought, as he had stumbled in, _blind d_ runk, and very loudly, at 3 in the morning. That he was most probably of a most _delicate and precious_ hung over disposition this morning, also.

Thomas listened as more muffled sounds came from the room above him, as the man probably scrambled about failing at trying to dress himself. Thomas smiled wryly at that, hearing his feet scatter across the floorboards as another loud _THUMP_ echoed down to thomas, and yet another _“arrgghhhmmnnnff”_ of a groan also. He smiled twice as wide, sipping more of his tea. The idiot was probably trying to manouvre himself into his breeches and clearly, from the noises that were thwacking through the house, the drunken lout wasn’t having much..

 _THUD-THUD-THUD…_ ‘Owwwwwwww’

… Luck. With the optimistic task, of trying to put both of his legs the correct way into his trousers, cursing and blundering about his room like a bull in a china shop.

Finally, much to Sir Thomas’s dissapointment. He heard footsteps make their clumsy unsure way down the staircase, thudding gently with each step. Until the shuffling groaning six foot one frame of his friend managed to make it, upright, to the Breakfast room door.

As it was pushed open, the aggrivated and pained body of Sir Benedict Carlton could be seen the other side of the wood. And, Thomas felt like applauding the man, he had managed to sucessfully pull on his breeches, he even had them the right way round. _Bravo_ , Indeed. On his top half he wore a loose cotton shirt, with his biscuit coloured breeches, and tan braces on, and atop all of such, a red silken long dressing gown. His feet had been left uncommonly bare. 

My god. _Think of the massacre if the twit had attempted his boots..._

“Morning.”

Benedict mumbled, his voice husky, and miserable, displaying how much agony he was suffering in.

“Thank god, I was worried you wouldn’t make it down the stairs in one piece.”

Thomas smiled a wry smile, looking back down to his letters below him on the table. As he tried to refocus on telling Iris just exactly how wonderful Elizabeth was. But, he feared his words _would not_ do her looks justice.

And her beauty was certainly something to behold. She was just… _indescribable…_

And he had dreamt of her, he was certain, last night. After he got in at the modest time of half past eleven, he had gone straight to bed. Not that he was tired, matter of fact, in spite of the fact he had risen that morning at seven, as always. (Something about the military life had stuck with him) After he undressed, into his loose cotton shirt and sleeping breeches, led between the crisp cool sheets of his room. One arm behind his head, and despite the fact he was relaying the sound of Elizabeth’s laugh over and over in his head, he doesn’t remember falling asleep…

But he _definitely_ dreamt of her. That much he does know.

Sometime in the night, his sleeping form had become _quite_ restless and _hungry._ And his mind had been filled with the most – _sensual_ – of images. He’d watched these visions as if floating somewhere near his ceiling. But yet, at the same time he had been the mortal form on the bed aswell. And he had not been _alone._

_Or clothed._

He had been naked, and could feel everything. His frame moving over a lithe female form; his hands stroking and squeezing her warm flesh. The delectable tangle of arms and legs, the musky definable scent of two bodies in love – He could see her lips gape open as she moaned, pale bare skin tinged with amber firelight. He could see his hands groping over the fleshy and rounded globes of her thighs. Slipping round to cup her ass. His mouth had been, suckling, _most_ intently on her burgeoning stiff rosy breast. Causing her hands to claw deep into the bedsheets below. The both of them were moaning and making husky rasps of desire. His shoulders and back, arching and tugging back and forth as he made love to her. 

it had all been there, hot and vivid in his unconscious mind. And then he had shifted over the woman below, just going the tiniest fraction to the left, propapbly to kiss at his eager lovers neck. And then she was no longer faceless. First thing he saw was a long coil of curled red hair fold over her shoulder that was suddenly the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life. She looked like Venus. Aphrodite. A Goddess sunning herself on some rocks off a Grecian isle. And this stand of hair was tickling him, feathering the sensitive skin on his shoulder.

And he saw her.

He saw Miss Elizabeth Farrow.

He’d awakened in the blink of an eye. Sitting bolt upright in bed and gasping from the sheer erotiscism of it.

It had been the most lurid sensual dream he had _ever_ had. He had taken deep drawing breaths until his heart calmed in his chest, and the heat that flushed him drowned away. Then he had lain back down onto the pillows, slowly and carefully. As it that would somehow prevent another lusty encounter with her in his head. He had been a _tad_ aroused, by the conjourings of his sinful mind. But had found It no hardship to fall back into a deep dreamless sleep. Waking up on the dot of six, to rise, bathe and dress. And scurry out of doors to the nearest flower emporium to place a delivery for her. Mostly out of sheer generosity of showing how much he wanted to court her, but also because, remembering his dream, he felt almost as if his body had taken advantage of her.

Nonetheless, he shook the thought away with a blink as Benedict came to the chair closest him, Thomas sat at the head of the table. Benedict just to his left.

“I _won’t_ point out you’re in the seat that traditionally the _master_ of the house takes..”

Benedict grumbled. Face resting on elbow as he watched Thomas scribble his correspondence to the _lovely_ Iris in his wide loopy and spidery hand.

“You just did.”

Thomas smiled, finishing his words with a flicking flourish.

“ _Oh._ ”

Benedict frowned.

“Did I say that _aloud?_ ”

He asked, clearly stuck. Whether Benedict was adressing him, or speaking plainly to himself. He couldn’t be sure.

“Evidently, you are feeling a bit, _precious,_ this morning.”

Thomas pointed out, smile twitching in amusement, brow raising. Watching as Benedict slumped his angular face into both his hands. His friends voice nothing more than a grumbled throaty warbling sound to his ears that sounded like his head was underwater.

“I’ll answer you when my head stops rotting from the inside out.”

Benedict growled lowly. Thomas’s low voice quite grating to his aching head.

Champagne, he cursed, the _bloody_ stuff, was the reason he now felt utterly resistable, head feeling like someone had been _far_ too greatly liberal with a mallet, whacking him upon the head with it like they were trying to tenderize a steak. _Ugh_. _No_ , even thinking of the notion of food was not a good idea. His stomach rolled in a wave of something that made him feel utterly queasy, and want to heave up his innards.

Whereas usually the ladies man would be jovial, sly and more cunning than that of a slinky fox. But today, alas, he wanted to crawl somewhere dark, quiet and warm and completly free from anything resembling, food, loud noise and the entirety of the female race. 

So suffering was he, in a matter of fact, that even if a goddess, Aphrodite herself, for instance, even if she swanned into the room, floating on a bloody clamshell, perfectly, _delightfully naked_ , except for a few _well-placed_ flowers, desperately urging and seeking his desire. He’d reward the woman by most probably _puking_ at her feet.

And to top it off, even the tempting mental image of _even a nearly naked_ woman hadn’t excited him _one bit_. He really _was not_ himself this morning.

“Champagne?”

Tom asked, asking as to what It was that his friend had ibibed last night, to now owe to his _charming_ state.

His answer was a mumble bred with a growl.

“Breakfast?” Thomas asked.“ _More like luncheon for you_.” He added, muttering that sentence under his breath.

Benedict’s stomach lurched.

“Are you mentally deficient?”

He snarled rhetorically, in acute misery, head thumping down softly onto the surface of the table below him. Resting on his bracketed arms. Stomach squirming in sickened and pained complaint.

“A, No, would suffice.” Thomas smiled.

“Sorry, _Darling_. I’m not generally in an affectionate temper when my head feels as if a grand piano has fallen on it.”

Benedict japed, snapping the words softly. It was then that Benedict’s delightful and very astute Butler, Perkins, swept into the room noiselessly and with grace and ease that belied his aged look. Every London Butler seemed to have that trait about them. He noticed.

“Anything I can fetch for you sir?” Perkins enquired kindly.

“A _very good_ murderer. Spare me of life quickly and with little pain.” Benedict joked. Face still in his arms.

Perkin’s eyes flickered off to the side, his lips pursing. Silence portraying that he did not understand what was required of him.

“Another pot of tea, if you would be so good, Perkins. I believe Mr Carlton's state is of somewhat _delicate_ , at best.”

Thomas explained. Miming tipping a glass back to his lips three times.

The Butler answered with his staple ‘very good, sir’ with a hint that followed sounding like a reproving ‘drunk again, I see Sir’ to Ben, tone about it.

“Shall I have Mrs Smith make you one of her famed steadying tonics, Sir?” Perkins asked.

Benedict groaned, Thomas could see the man heaving. That was his reply.

“My understanding is that was Bendict for _‘No Thankyou’_ Just the tea will do nicely, Perkins. Thankyou.” Thomas smiled.

“He Thinks I drink too much…” Benedict mused correctly when Perkins had swept out of doors and back down to the kitchen, just as silently as he had come.

“You _do_ drink too much.” Thomas chided with a smile.

“I’m a charming rogue. People _overlook_ drunkard ways if you are such a charming rogue as I.”

“Yes, your positively a absolute _Siren_ of a man _this morning_.” Thomas joked.

“ _Why_ do I like you again?”

Benedict asked. Swerving his head round to glare at his friend again.

“Battle of Alma, September 20th, 1854, I believe you were present, You know, I only _shot_ a man who had been about to _put a bullet through_ you.” Thomas fought back. Wit on top form.

“ _Oh, that_.”

Ben waved off jokingly. Swatting his hand in the air.

“How was Lady Heartcliffes ball anyway? Did it serve you well?” Thomas asked.

That’s where Benedict had been last night. Where apparantly, he had bathed in a _bathtub_ full of champagne, to have had enough to get him to a level of agony such as the one he was in now.

“Full of silly idiots. Namely Mama’s and their silly frilly dressed girls. I don’t think there was _one_ there last night who had more than _one_ active braincell among them.” He grumped.

“So, a standard society turnout then?” Thomas asked.

“Quite.” Benedict answered.

“What about you? How was your Dinner?”

Benedict asked. Perkins had returned to the room with a pot of steaming tea, Thomas watched with hilarity, as after Perkins poured the cup and left, Benedict pushed the saucer and cup away across the table as far as his arm would reach.

Clearly, his stomach hadn’t the temperament for anything this morning. Friend, foe, tea, woman, food or otherwise. 

It was _most_ unlike the man, anyway...

“It was. _Very._ pleasant.” Thomas smiled adamantly, like a handsome rake. Smile wide and proud. 

“Dinner with Richard Farrow? _Pleasant?_ ” Benedict asked, obviously shocked.

“Sir Richard is, I grant him, a very nice man. But was his wife there? _Anna, -minty_ Sharpe or whatever her name is..” He asked.

“Yes, she was present.” Thomas smiled.

“She sends her well wishes to you, _Mr Carlton_. She quite _dotes_ upon you, something _wicked_.” He smiled, cooing his words at his best friend.

 _A blind man_ could have seen the all body shudder that overtook Benedict’s lanky form. Revulsion spreading through him.

That was before his eyes turned into sizzling blue orbs, and his smile curved up into something that told Thomas his thoughts behind it had been _most,_ _impure._

“And what of his, _breath-takingly_ _lovely,_ daughter?”

Benedict asked. Looking quite sultry and passionately interested. Like the scoundrel that he was.

Thomas grit his jaw. _That did it…_

_He had a self obligation to keep to himself aswell if his memory served him correct…_

“ _OW!_ ”

Benedict outburst, as Thomas’s hard booted foot met his soft shin.

“What the _bloody hell_ that for?” He demanded.

“And, _Damn_ your legs are long…”

He gasped, reaching under the table to rub his battered shin.

“I’ll aim for the _other leg_ if you talk about her in _that_ way…” Thomas seethed.

“I thought we’d ascertained that I was to be the _precious_ one, this morning?”

Benedict asked, wondering where the mans hostility was coming fro-

He stopped,

grinned wolfishly at Sir Thomas, who scowled back at him,

and then Ben tilted his head.

“You favour her.” Benedict spoke obviously.

Thomas’s jaw grit together. “She’s taken dances with you, as I undertsand it..” He asked, cooly, anger flaring down.

“Several.”

Benedict smiled in an all fox manner. Back was the rascal _now_. Most _innopportunely_.

“I preferred you when you were in pain.” Thomas growled.

“She is quite the fine dancer too, lovely slim waist to hold onto. And she always without fail, smells wonderfully like lillies and honey. And has quite the prettiest smile this side of Mayfair. Her wit is excellent too I grant. and those curves of hers… Beautiful red hair too. I’d long to see it _unbound_ , I bet she would look divine, hair fanned out below her, spread out, utterly nake-“

Whatever he had been about to say, was interupted by the way Thomas dug the toe of his boots deep into Benedict’s thigh. Causing the man to screech, rather than lustfully dissect the woman Thomas was now courting. His screeches now filled the room instead.

“..JESUS! Kenworthy, bloody cursed bollocking ow! Alright, I _desist_. She is a fine woman. I’m glad she goes to a good man…” He grumped, rubbing his leg.

They heard rushed footsteps barrell their way through the house, before Perkins poked his head around the door, looking startled. Clutching a large wash jug in his right hand.

“Is something amiss, Sir?” he enquired in shock, having heard Benedict’s cries.

“No. Its quite alright Perkin’s. I’m just being mildly assualted in my own home, But nice to know you value my life to try and come to my defense with the porclain washjug from the spare room.”

Benedict smiled, half under the table as he touched his injured leg. Sir Thomas smiling coyly sat near him at head of the table.

“You are dismissed.” Benedict grinned.

Perkins nodded. “Thankyou, Sir.” He said unsurely, looking at the jug in his white gloved hand before he backed out of the room and shut the door in his wake.

Sir Thomas looked back at his friend with a gritted smile.

“Continue…”

Benedict grunted, furiously patting his hurting thigh. Everything below his neck had been quite satsifactory and unscathed _until_ just now.

“But, here’s just the thing..” Thomas spoke.

Benedict frowned, not cottoning onto his intent.

“She’s also receiving Marcus Burke’s attentions..”

Thomas ground out. Angered at even the _whiff_ of the mans name. How he had _grabbed and handled_ Elizabeth like she was piece _of dead_ meat.

Benedict wrinkled his nose in disdain. His eyes clouded with hatred.

“The man’s got worse habits for gambling and drinking than I have. Not to mention seedier taste in company. He’s been through _every single_ stage girl south of Clerkenwell.” Benedict pointed out.

“So most squalid habits _indeed_ …” Sir Thomas smiled.

Bendict jabbed a stern finger in his direction.

“Careful.” He warned.

“Or _what_?” Thomas smiled. “You are hardly in a position to fight me.” He pointed out dryly.

“I’ll get Perkins not to attend you.” He threatened.

“Perkin’s _adores_ me. I don’t get drunk every night, and I am a humble house guest. _AND,_ Mrs Smith would quite feed you to the dogs if she found out how I was being treated.” He spoke with a smile that showed his security in how his housekeeper would punish him.

“ _Curse_ you.” Benedict smiled.

“So I understand.” Thomas leered.

“So, the frightful Burke is stealing your young madam out from under you.” Benedict smiled.

“That statement borders on indelicacy.” Thomas pointed out.

“Well. _Come now_ , don’t tell me you haven’t thought about what she’d be like on the marriage bed.” Benedict asked.

Thomas shut his eyes and sighed. Willing away the erotic images from his dream that taunted him behind his eyelids, that confirmed Ben’s statement.

“Having only met her, and made her acquaintance last evening, I cannot confirm that _lewd_ enquiry.” Thomas glared at his beaming friend.

“So. How best get rid of the Burke..” Bendict thought aloud. Musing.

“You, _could...._. Let _me_ seduce her aswell, and then Burke will definitely loose interest If I declare _my interests_ in her, between the two of us, we could scare him off. I have quite a _repute_ you know...” He smiled, asking what Tom thought.

Judging that the man now looked like he would slaughter him using his bare hands. That was most obviously a ‘no’

“I’ve no intentions of getting rid of Burke. And you are going nowhere near her.. Or I fear you’ll start drooling _at_ or _over_ her.” Thomas remarked.

Benedict’s smile grew.

“I can’t help it if the woman’s figure is worthy of my _ardent_ appreciations.” Ben twitched a wry brow at his terse tempered friend.

“What happened to your licentious M.T.T.T.W acronym when it came to innocents?” Thomas asked.

“I’d bend my rules and ways for a woman _such as she_.” He ogled. Eyes glittering with sensuality.

“Cad.” Thomas scowled.

“ _Finest L_ adies Cad about town, I think you’ll find.” He added.

“So. How are you going to catch this elusive red haired mare?” Ben asked.

Thomas smiled.

“I am going to do nothing but let Burke show himself up as the soundrel that he is. In the meantime, I am just going to court her, get to know her. But I have a sneaking suspicion I will like what I find. She is quite the loveliest woman I have _ever_ met.”

He smiled, looking down to his letters and idly touching a fingertip to twirl his digit on the paper, tracing it over the words on the page. He had a mushy look dancing across his blue eyes, and a stupid smile adorning his lips.

“ _Good god_ , you’re in _love_ with the woman…”

Benedict groaned. Finding the notion so wonderfully mundane.

“How dull.” He supposed.

“When, and if, you ever reclaim your soul and heart back from the devil, and do fall in love, Benedict Carlton. You _will not_ come to think of it so poorly.” Thomas brought up.

Benedict made a ‘Pssshhhh’ sound.

“Marriage is not for every man. I like having my freedom and wealth, and the riotous disposable affairs and bliss that numerous different women offer me.” He insisted with a sly wink and smile. 

“You’ll change your tune when you meet some – poor, unfortunate and, not to mention, _deeply unlucky, l_ ass – who you want to marry.” Thomas japed.

“What if she’s already married?…”

He grinned. Lifting the teacup he had pushed away earlier to his lips, taking a sip.

Thomas sighed.

“You have no _gallantry_ about you whatsoever.” He shook his head.

“I beg to differ…” He whined.

“I have enough to know that you will not rest until you wed this woman.” He finalised.

“Now, that….”

Thomas supposed, pointing a finger at his rake of a best friend who allowed him to kick his shins in his own home, who would never deny him Perkin’s excellent service. And whom he quite considered to be the most decent friend - despite his repute of dishonesty and bed hopping. 

“…Is the first honest and true thing that has crossed your lips all morning.” He smiled.

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” Benedict winked.

 

Thomas grimaced at his rogue friend

 

But he was right, he would _not_ stop until Elizabeth Farrow became _his_ Duchess of Chatsworth. _His_ Miss Elizabeth Kenworthy _._

_Cross his heart, and hope to die._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

##  **Imagine;**

Thomas overhearing someone is trying to win over your affections and he is furious because you are his as soon as he set eyes on you.

Or: How _I_ like to imagine how Sir Thomas looks at Mr Burke when he grabs Elizabeth's arm in chapter 5. 

 

 

 

 

Phwoarrrr. Don't make him angry...

(GIF and words not mine, credit goes to the lovely ladies who run tomhiddlestonimagines on tumblr...)

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 


	11. A Gentleman's Generosity, A Chaperones Fault, and a Ladies Lapse in Conversation...

 

 

 

Precisely _two_ seconds after the stroke of noon rung through the clock on the mantel within the front parlour, there came a rattling knock upon the polished front door of the Farrow Household.

Mrs Sharpe, who had been poised on her heels all morning, had leapt up from her seat in the window every time she heard the slightest noise come about near the street outside their home. Elizabeth and Felicity had been keeping count among themselves of the copious amount of times she had sprung from the chair, and practically _flattened_ her nose against the glass to see what was occurring outside, and if the noise meant that _either one_ of the two suitors who’d promised to call had arrived.

Both Farrow Girls had made it to the total count of _38 times_ , so far. And now, as they heard Hawkins cross to the door to answer it, Elizabeth thanked every archangel, saint, cherubim, cloud attendant and any other workforce member that God had up in the heavens, that there would now _not be_ a 39 th time. She had been distracted by the mad flailings of her stepmother, trying to ensconce herself a book of Thomas Blake’s collected poetry, and Araminta’s throwing herself at the window every eight seconds _had not helped._

But now, it seems, Araminta ought fear in anticipation _no longer_. For a suitor had arrived.

Mrs Sharpe then moved, surprisingly for a woman of her stout size, and in heels no less, across the room like a whippet at a racetrack. Had Libby blinked, she would have missed the sight of it. She crossed to the settee, Fussing over Elizabeth, rubbing her cheeks to make them rosier, plumping all of the, _already_ , plumped cushions, just because _one can never be too sure_ , Mrs Sharpe offered in a jumble of words, Of course, The Duke would most likely declare he never wished _to see to, or speak_ to her again, if he called upon a woman whose front parlour settee cushions were abysmally and disgustingly flat as hers. Why, they’d be instantly _snubbed_ from his lofty presence with all the fury and _repugnance,_ he could muster. She smiled at her own witty comment. And waved away her Stepmother’s hands, after she wrenched the book from her fingers, threw it to the end table, and fussed and preened over whether Elizabeth’s hair was sitting perfectly enough. Snapping at Felicity to _straighten up_ , and not to be _too_ cheeky. And pointing the same reproving finger at Libby stating she ought _daren’t_ be too intelligent.

Elizabeth nodded, a little peeved that she had been halfway through her favourite poem, The Dream, when Mrs Sharpe flung the book away from her. Elizabeth’s shocked hands dropped dutifully to her lap, and was instructed to sit with her legs slightly off to the left.

Elizabeth positioned herself as instructed.

Before Mrs Sharpe wrinkled her nose, and changed her mind. Uttering her legs ought go to the right. Her legs looked _most unseemly_ placed to the left. Elizabeth grunted. Questioning how _on earth_ in all of the _heavens_ , could her legs look _unseemly to the left?_ Nonetheless..

Elizabeth grit her teeth at the absurdity of the notion, but moved them in the opposite direction to _appease_ Mrs Sharpe's silly wishes all the same…

Apparently, as came that little nose wrinkle, again. Mrs Sharpe was not pleased with how they looked _to the right_ , _either._

Elizabeth sighed, deeply annoyed now.

Where else was she meant to place her legs? Atop her head? On the ceiling? _Just south of Kensington?_ When mentioning this to Mrs Sharpe, the elder woman tutted and gabbled in an impatient rush;

“Oh, you’ve just _got too_ many legs. Sit with them centred straight.” She told.

Libby wondered at what point in time, two legs had become considered as _an indulgence_. And kept them in front of her, sat prettily with her hands folded in her blue velvet lap.

She should have been more vexed at Mrs Sharpe's useless trivial manner of fussing, but alas. She couldn’t give two figs about that now. Because her body was positively _thrumming_ with nerves, that mingled accordingly with delight at the fact she would be greeting a _certain handsome_ Duke, at noon.

Because through the slightly ajar doorway, in the hall. She heard quite the most _, lovely_ , sound of that smoky, husky recognisable tone that belonged to Sir Thomas Kenworthy, announcing his arrival, and having the utmost decency to apologise for his _two seconds_ of tardiness.

 _If he’s late_ , Elizabeth thought, _then I’m the Queen’s Undergarments..._ she heard her wit remark dryly to herself in her own head.

The three women heard the front door close again, as the neat tread of sturdy boots clacked their way down the hall and across coming up to the front parlour door. Behind the slow stride of their Butler.

“Elizabeth..” Mrs Sharpe hissed as she positioned herself on the blue armchair, attending to her own skirts, sat diagonally opposite her eldest.

She then pointed, tapping her finger in the air towards the book on the side next to Libby, causing the young woman to frown, searching for her reasoning's as to her shushed harsh words.

“Book!” Mrs Sharpe fretted.

“You tugged it out my hands a moment ago!” Elizabeth pointed out with antagonism

“I changed my mind, _blasted_ _ge_ l, pick the damn thing up, look as If your reading, not expecting him!” She nagged.

Elizabeth sighed, grounding her jaw together as her hand slammed atop the book, and she found her place again among the pages. Hoping she didn’t have to settle with one more _mad_ wish from her stepmother.

All three ladies remained silent as the grave, Elizabeth with her head bowed in her book, Mrs Sharpe fiddling idly with some embroidering, and Felicity slumping on the sofa, causing Mrs Sharpe to glare in a most austere manner at her youngest, who was idly fiddling with placing a long blue ribbon about her white day hat.

They all three looked up as Hawkins swept into the room, his tall figure followed by an ever taller one. Sir Thomas smiled as he came into the presence of the eldest Miss Farrow once again.

“Sir Thomas Kenworthy, Ma'am.” Hawkins introduced to Mrs Sharpe, stepping aside to let the Duke past as he breathed out his thanks to the Butler in a hushed soft tone.

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as she saw him direct a smile across to her before he bowed to Mrs Sharpe. He looked rather fetching today, dressed in a grey overcoat, under which he had a rustic scarlet brown waistcoat with silver buttons that shone like raindrops in the sun. A black cravat was knotted neatly about his neck, atop a folded collar and a very neatly pressed white shirt. His breeches were a coal black colour, along with that of the shining black leather of his boots that sat snugly up his calves. It was more commonplace in town for gentlemen to wear short bowler shoes, but as he was country nobility, for horse riding and such like, Elizabeth supposed tall riding boots were of a wiser venture.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs Sharpe.” He bowed. Taking her hand and kissing it gently. But only in his right, Elizabeth noticed his other was clasped behind his back, holding something.

“Oh, indeed, Sir Thomas,” She blushed. The man’s potent smile struck her deep, he truly was handsome up close. _Intimidatingly_ so. The elder woman’s cheeks reddened and she stuttered mildly in a most silly manner.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes with a smile.

“May I introduce you to my youngest, Miss Felicity Farrow.” Mrs Sharpe motioned her hand up to Felicity, who stood and gave the Duke her cheekiest smile and a short curtsey.

Sir Thomas smiled down at the girl, She had a waif like daintiness that reminded him of his ten and six aged niece, Edith. Except she didn’t have the sparkle of naughtiness glinting away in her coppery eyes, like, he dared say, the youngest Miss Farrow did.

“It is very good to meet you, Miss Felicity. Your sister has already told me of you… Something regarding an unenthusiastic penchant for sewing, If my memory serves me correctly…” Sir Thomas asked.

Felicity beamed, her pert little grin back up at him. Indeed, so handsome was he, she had to blink and was forced to take a breath at the severity of his looks.

“I find it quite a useless waste of my time.”

Felicity decided loftily, throwing her nose in the air attempting to look regal.

Mrs Sharpe cleared her throat unyieldingly.

“But, I apparently _need make use of the skill.._ ” Felicity spoke as she rolled her eyes, parroting Mrs Sharpe’s words as she would not have her youngest to be so frivolous with her embroidering skills.

“I know I shouldn’t confess this, but as a man, I can ease your fears and confirm that we care not one jot for a passionate preference for sewing in young ladies. We much prefer something by which we men can associate with...”

He hushed softly, whispering the last part of his sentence.

“Such as?” Felicity asked back in a whisper.

Sir Thomas glanced back round to Miss Elizabeth and Mrs Sharpe before he beamed, leaning round again and whispering something into her ear, which was;

“A fondness for confectionary and wit would do the trick…”

and lo and behold from behind his back, he produced a small paper bag, bulging with its contents. But as Elizabeth was close enough to get a scent of paper, and sickly perfumed sugar, she instantly knew what he was gifting her with.

Felicity gasped as he placed them in her petite hands, her lips gaped as she looked back up at the man.

“Strawberry sucking sweets. Forgive me, I hope they are to your liking, my niece is also most partial and I consider that they are quite redundant for a young miss who is sweet enough already.”

He winked, smiling. Straightening up.

Felicity blushed.

“ _Oh,_ Sir Thomas, that is most kind of you, _Sir_ …”

Mrs Sharpe leered from across the room, a hand to her chest. No suitor had ever thought of gifts for other family member’s before.

“It is of no consequence, Madam, I assure you. I am merely showing my thanks as for the dinner invitation yesterday.”

He smiled, crossing to the woman and pulling a black velvet box from his pocket and handing it to the surprised woman.

“Something for the Lady of the House aswell..” He smiled. “I insist.”

Mrs Sharpe was lost for words.

“Oh, but, Sir…”

She tried to object, because that was considered polite. Accepting the box with trembling fingers and opening it, to see inside there was the most beautiful looking vintage crystal brooch.

“Sir Thomas. It is, _quite …wonderful_ …” Mrs Sharpe spoke in plentiful astonishment.

“If you would permit me, I know gentleman callers usually attain gifts fo the woman they are courting, but I almost find that quite a ridiculous deed when as it stands, I needed to find an adequate way for showing my appreciation. Not just for the Dinner invitation, but also for allowing me to see your dear Elizabeth, I know she is receiving Marcus Burke also, but I am most grateful to the highest degree that you allow me to attend her affections aswell.” Thomas explained.

Mrs Sharpe looked like she was about to faint.

Finally, he turned his head towards Elizabeth. Crossing to her as she rose, to place a kiss upon her hand.

“Miss Elizabeth. I am _beyond_ overjoyed to see you once again.”

He smiled, and from the happiness mirrored in his eyes and smile, she knew he truly _meant_ that. Every _word_ of it.

He had placed a lingering _long_ kiss on her hand, seeing that smile he was relieved to have caused her. Her blue eyes gleaming in merriment.

“And, _as_ the expression goes, Madam, I saved the best til last..”

He explained, drawing a small, rectangular wrapped item out of the pocket of his grey undercoat. And handing it to her. It was wrapped in brown paper, with string tied four ways across the small thin package, with a string of dried lavender tucked into the bow.

“You are _much_ too generous, Sir..”

She blushed, he watched with hunger as that pretty flush he adored crept down her cheeks and neck. Tinting her pale milky soft skin a deep pink.

“All such hindrance forgotten in the presence of your beautiful smile. Miss Farrow.”

He hushed softly, watching her face as if she was the singularly _most_ _beautiful_ creature to cross his path.

“You are very astute, Sir Thomas, I quite adore Lavender.” She jocunded.

“If I may be so bold, I detected as such, in odes to the perfume you wore the evening last.” He smiled.

They both looked down to watch her hands unwrap the bow, and then reveal the green leather of a book cover underneath.

As she did, Mrs Sharpe looked across to Felicity with a large winning smile on her face. Waggling the fourth finger on her left hand to her youngest, as much as she was waggling her brows, her wedding ring glinting in the light as she watched the most enamoured couple converse and smile at each other quite stupidly and buoyantly, showing what she predicted would happen between them with her ring.

Felicity gave her a smile, before she mimed sticking a finger in her mouth and vomiting at the nauseating figures.

“I hope you favour poetry. I saw a copy of Jane Austen on the end table, yesterday, and I thought you might quite like the work of these three authoresses'. As I understand it, they are supposed to be extremely skilled with words.” He added.

She turned the book over to see the title: ‘ _Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell’_

She grinned, she had wanted this book since it’s publishing in 1846, but had been unable to get her hands upon one.

“I hope it is another worthy companion to join Miss Austen.” He remarked.

“It’s wonderful, Sir Thomas. How will I _ever_ thank you sufficiently enough?” She asked.

 _You can marry me_ ,

his brain spat out rudely in his head. But outwardly, he just smiled his breezy smile at her, enchanting her further.

She brought the lavender under her nose and sniffed, her smile happy as she inhaled deep the scent she loved.

“I’m pleased you like it.”

He finished. She smiled as she sat herself down again, his hand helping her lower to the seats so she learned he was a most civilised gentleman without fail, indeed.

“I adore it.”

She shone brightly, the look in _both_ their eyes telling Felicity and Mrs Sharpe that they very much longed to embrace one another…

“Would you care for a pot of tea, Sir Thomas?”

Mrs Sharpe asked as the man lowered himself onto an armchair next to Elizabeth, as she was perched far down the blue settee near him. They looked _most_ becoming together as a couple. Araminta remarked. _They would bare such beautiful grandchildren to her… should they ever marry…they were a most handsome pair indeed..._

“Thank you, Mrs Sharpe, that would be most fine.” He pleased.

“I shall go and fetch Hawkins. Felicity, be a dear and go and see if your Father would like a cup..”

Mrs Sharpe insisted, rising and getting to the door. Seeing Felicity frown mildly at her, and Mrs Sharpe then, when the frowning and head bobbing did not work, winked at the girl slyly.

“Why are you winking at me, Mrs Sharpe?” Felicity asked.

Mrs Sharpe sighed. Shoulder’s slumping.

“ _Wink?_ For heavens sake child, why should I _wink at you?”_

She asked in a grumbled disbelief, nodding her head out of the door, urging the young miss to follow her lead of fleeing the room.

“I...guess...I’ll go..and...ask..father..if...he..would…like... some... _tea?”_

Felicity spoke, her tone more like asking Mrs Sharpe if that pleased her.

“Yes. Thank you, dear.”

Mrs Sharpe spoke through a gritted teeth.

Felicity rose and ducked out of the room in a hesitant jerky manner, watching as Mrs Sharpe closed the door, smiling sweetly at Elizabeth and Sir Thomas.

As they got outside the door, clicking It softly shut behind them. Felicity turned to Mrs Sharpe and hissed a sentence at her as Araminta pressed her ear to the door.

“Forgive me, Mrs Sharpe, but aren’t we meant to be upon _the other_ side of the door to chaperone them?”

Felicity asked with wit that sounded most alike that of her sisters.

_Regrettably..._

“Only now, a large piece of wood is in our way..” Felicity pointed out obviously.

 _“Shush!_ Child!” She added

“Your Chaperoning them! It would be the _height_ of silliness to leave them _alone_ together…”

Felicity offered.

“How the mighty have fallen if I am now _doomed_ to be the _silly_ one..”

Mrs Sharpe offered in a flat amused tone. Taking a dig at her stepdaughter.

Felicity ground her jaw down, mouth a straight unimpressed line.

“We can’t leave them! I’ll go back in.”

Felicity admonished, placing her hand upon the handle to do so. Mrs Sharpe gripped her wrist gently.

“I pray you most certainly _will not!_ ” she chided.

“ _Mrs Sharpe!._ ” Felicity asked, horrified;

“He could _ruin_ her!, you saw the way they were _looking_ at one another... It was nearly _indecent_ ” 

Felicity squeaked. Voice pitchy. 

“The way ruination _works_ Felicity, we’d have to leave them for an  _hour alone together_ to accomplish such a thing, and for any _significant_ damage to be done. Besides which, her gown is laced so tight _he’d never_ get around it anyway. And furthermore, five or so minutes whilst I go and wait for the tea to be made, is only enough time for them to manage an embrace at best….”

Araminta predicted., directing a nod at the young girl as she finished her words, still listening at the door.

Felicity made a disgusted face, her mouth a wide ‘O’ shape.

“Mrs Sharpe that is quite the most _appalling_ thing I have ever heard of... I never dreamed such words would cross your lips!"

Felicity stated in shock. Her mind brought back to this morning, Mrs Sharpe insisted that the corset be tight to _enhance_ her sister’s figure, _but_ Felicity had not realised that it was _also_  a ploy to ensure that when she planned to leave them alone, that he would not be able to ruin Libby! The ghastliness of it all! It had been _no coincidence after all…._

“You plotted to leave them alone, didn’t you?” Felicity asked.

“That’s why you made Nessie tie her corset _so_ tight. So as that he wouldn’t be able to get it off _without fuss!”_ She asked.

Mrs Sharpe beamed. Her smile reading a sultry and proud _‘Exactly’_

“Five minutes should allow them time for a good embrace or two. That should encourage _his_ affection for her, and _her_ for him. No-one would get anywhere if there was not a slight _dabble_ of indecency, Felicity.” Mrs Sharpe added.

Felicity’s mouth hung wider. If that was at all _possible_ from the way it hung so far apart already. She wanted to go and wash her ears out _. She wasn’t hearing this, surely?!_ And especially not from Mrs Sharpe. The most proper lady, and strictest stickler for etiquette she had ever met. Not to mention she would be seeing Felicity through her own entrance to Society in a few months from now. She dared say that her austere chaperoning qualities had now been significantly _tarnished_ as to her youngest's eyes from now on...

Araminta noticed how shocked she was by her plotting. She rolled her eyes, sighing.

“You didn’t think I was as straight laced as all that, did you? They practically _produced enough electricity to power England_ when they first laid eyes on each other. It’s not an easy thing to hide, true love, you know.” She smiled.

“He really does love her _a great_ deal? don't you think?”

Felicity giggled, after managing to snap her mouth shut.

“Most _ardently_ I dare say.”

Mrs Sharpe cooed, giggling back. Before she realised where she was, and straightened up. The giggles having dissolved,

“Right. Now. _Make haste_ child, go see your father about that cup of tea..” She instructed.

“I quite say he looked most virile today, _SO_ handsome…” Mrs Sharpe giggled.

“That is _certainly_ not something any good _Chaperone_ is supposed to admit to her _second_ ward…”

Felicity remarked wryly, halfway across the hall to her Father’s study.

“I pray you _do not_ tell Richard of my shortcomings. Or I will see to it that you come to the receiving end of having _sewing tuiton_ as a punishment...”

Mrs Sharpe warned. 

“I daren’t."

She growled. thoroughly unpleased at her stepmothers method of blackmail. 

 

"The shock to him would be unbearable. I half expect he would have thought the world had gone _quite barmy_.”

Felicity pointed out.

Mrs Sharpe waved the _gel_ away with a flutter of her hand. Before she pressed her ear to the door one last time, smiled in a most satisfactory manner, then proceeded to make her way briskly to the Kitchen for that tea.

 

 _Who would've thought._..Araminta pondered....That the world indeed, _did_ now seem quite topsy turvy as, _heaven forfend_ , Felicity Farrow, Silliest Flirt in all London Town, had shown _great_ determination for _propriety_ on this occasion. She shook her head, smiling at the incredible _irony_ of it all....

 

 

~

 

 

Libby was so embarrassed after her stepmother and sisters _completely transparent_ departure from the room, their intent of which had been plainer than the light of day, she had gone quite red and shut her eyes as she sighed.

They could hear the two of them converse outside the door _very patently_.

_Every. Single. Damned. Word._

“Mr Sharpe Is not quite the sternest of Chaperones, is she?” Sir Thomas asked with hilarity in his smile.

“Nor the most subtle.”

Elizabeth smiled dryly, her eyes in her lap. And when she looked up to see him smiling at her, she quite remembered that they had been left. _Alone. Together._

 _She gulped._ Suddenly he became twice as handsome and roguish. His smile now made her want to faint, and his eyes looked atleast _eight_ times as striking.

She wet her lips.

_Oh, how he wanted to ravish her when she did that.._

“Never before in my life have I been _more unsure_ of how to act…”

Elizabeth admitted. Her breath quickening, Sir Thomas noted how her bust strained up and down sharply as she took rapid breaths. Her gown was _exquisite_ , the blue velvet transforming and shifting shades in the daylight. He could only dare to imagine what _delightful_ bare and beautiful form lain beneath her corset. Also, velvet, he knew, would feel twice as heavenly under his hands if he were to run them all over her.

“Nor I. But I daresay with each passing second, you must know how much temptation is, _eroding_ my resolve..”

He spoke lowly, and my god, if his normal voice was enough to excite her, this sound of his voice becoming ardent was enough to make her _melt.._

The air between them became stiff with tension, and they could both sense it.

“I, um.”

She spoke. Wetting her lips again. _Since when had they needed quite so much moisture?_ She thought.

She noticed how Sir Thomas’s eys were burning at her, focusing most intently on her lips, his chest heaving now also.

“Seeing as Mrs Sharpe left the room with the express purpose as to _encourage_ my affections of you..”

He began, his tone was sinfully _lustful_.

What he did next truly did make Elizabeth feel like her brain was somewhere not related to her body, _entirely_. And that her lungs became completely vestigial organs to her. And her heart somewhere upstairs, the attic maybe...

Because Sir Thomas Kenworthy crossed to her in such quick strides and clever manoeuvring, she was left wondering how he had done it so _speedily._ And he placed his lithe, lean and impossibly tall frame next to her on the settee, taken her face into his warm soft, wide hands, and _kissed_ her…

It was better than anything she had ever dreamt of, _and more_.

And he was left not being able to believe how forward he had been, and how one woman could feel _so right_ under his palms.

His lips twisted with skill onto her own, his hands coming down from her neck to tuck his right gently into the slope of her perfectly small waist. The other, slid around her back and pulled her close to his front, their lips breaking away for a second as she gasped against his mouth, tugged tight to his lean chest as her hands clutched to his shoulders, feeling the fine fabric of his grey jacket as she fisted it in her hands. Peppering across her lips and cheeks with kisses that quite stole her breath, and left her gasping and _utterly_ stupid.

“T-Thomas..”

She groaned, in a breathy plea as his lips tilted to press into the supple crook of her neck, His hot breath ghosting down over her ear. Tickling her in the most delightful way. _Gods_ , this was better than any fantasy he had of doing this to her. The scent of her was intoxicating, and the heat that radiated from her skin was utterly addictive. He wanted to spend _hours_ , doing this to her. Making her rasp _his_ name, in a way that made his blood pound possessively through his veins, it made him want to rip the lovely dress _off_ and _claim_ her, right here on _the damn_ blue settee in _broad daylight_ in the _damned_ front parlour. _And lord help him, he_ _loved_ the sound of _his_ name on her lips.

“ _Oh Elizabeth…”_

He moaned, his lips hushing a hot growl of a whisper into her ears, she could feel his lips curve into a smile as he did. His mouth refocused on placing little nipping kisses down the skin beneath her ear. This caused her breath to heave harshly and she clutched his jacket tighter under her fingers, to try and keep herself anchored down to earth, her body felt so light, she feared she’d just dissolve into the air like a puff of smoke, with this everlasting sensation of desire shooting right to the very the tips of her toes.

He then heard her chuckle through a deep gasp as he scraped his teeth over her throat in a way that did something _so_ wonderfully good to her, she almost _feared_ the sensational power of it, and how it wielded her desire better than anything else in her head. Sense? Why that had deserted her now…

“I-I think I l-like being courted..”

She breathed in a gaspy high voice. Her tentative hand carefully touching up to the back of his neck, stroking soft tufts of his black silky hair between her fingers.

She was suffocating his senses also. The scent of honey, lillies and lavender as all he could detect. _So overpowering, so sweet, it's almost  All too much, having her like this. She is all he could think of._ She was _divine_ in his arms. And it was as if he had finally come _alive_ in hers...

He fought down a groan and the want to ease his, _ehem, taut_ desire _downstairs,_ _as it were_ , when her soft shy little hands touched the back of his neck. Her touch marked pleasurable fire wherever her skin met with his. If kissing was this mind blowing, how _good_ would it be when he got her into their marital bed?

 _Nnnnngh_. And that thought does not help his, _stiff,_ predicament _at all._

He smiled, nuzzling his nose across her supple neck. _He had been right_ , _it was delicious to sink his lips and teeth into._

“ _Haven’t_ you ever been courted before?”

He asked in a tone of desire that told her he almost didn’t believe her answer.

But her answer pleased him so greatly he couldn’t help the slow soft chuckle that resonated into her ear as a consequence.

“N-Not like this!”

She explained, feeling desire flow her every pore, unhindered.

“Good.”

He smiled possessively, coming back around to kiss her lips again, and just when she had thought to _regain_ her breath.. how _silly_ of her…

“Because if Marcus Burke has _ever_ dared kiss you like this, then I’m going to kill him.”

He snarled when he broke away from her lips, his hand coming back up to rest at the side of her neck. Looking deep into her eyes as he took in the beautiful curve of her lips when kiss bruised and air starved. He wanted _this sight_ , and indeed, _her_ , for the rest of his life.

“Oh, I think I’m beginning to fall dangerously in love with you, Miss Farrow.”

He gruffed, his thick desire strained voice was as wonderful as his words. 

“I feel rather the same way.” Elizabeth grinned.

“And yet we only met yesterday evening, the world seems to be quite _mad_ like that in that manner, don’t you find?” She asked with a smile.

“Madder things have happened…”

He grinned, his eyes locking onto hers, never wanting to leave the sight of her.

He mused, his hand following the curve of her smooth cheek as she smiled, _she did have skin like silk…_ he was still holding her close, with her hands at his shoulders, and he smiled in a utter wolfish manner as he realised one rather large coil of red hair had come undone from her coiffure as he had brushed the back of her neck to cup her close, he twirled his finger about it, absentmindedly, looking enraptured…

“But I have to say, on this occasion, I cannot be _more grateful_ for any form of senselessness that brought us together…” He mused softly.

She smiled.

“Me either.”

“We should probably disentangle ourselves now..”

He hushed, pressing one last kiss below her soft little ear, at the nape of her neck, an action that left her quite tingling with pleasure.

“Your stepmother and sister could walk in, _just think of the scandal if we were caught_..”

He rasped into her ear, his voice alike dark smoke. Husky and so sinful the sound of it made her shiver, and Goosebumps to raise on her skin.

She slid her hands down his chest as she pulled away and he pressed one last kiss to her lips, before settling his, _terse_ , body back into the chair beside her.

But before he did, he whispered one last thing into her ear which made absolutely sure that she melted into a mushy dribble of a girl.

 

“I’ll be sure to give you _plenty of kisses_  such as that during our courting, As your Chaperone is of a most _sympathetic_ nature to my ardent desire for you...” He promised.

 

~

 

 


	12. ~The Society Letters Of Lady Jane Plidebright~

 

 

 

 

 

Well. Dear Readers, It does not happen often. But this author has been rendered utterly _speechless_ by the news that has just reached her…

It seems, that Miss Elizabeth Farrow is now receiving the attentions of both the Duke of Chatsworth, _and_ Mr Marcus Burke.

I must say, the gel is certainly covering all bases when it comes to snaring a husband. For now she has the handsome, wealthy yet also slightly foul Mr Burke, and the cream of the crop of country gentry, Sir Thomas Kenworthy, whose looks, are quite certain to have _no_ striking rival.

It is yet unclear of who she will select to wed. But this author doesn’t mind declaring that as Marcus Burke was seen drunk, again, with a company of bachelors heading into The Royal Strand Theatre in Leister Square, presumably to catch a Gaiety, which this author knows happened to be _Ruy Blas and the Blasé Roué, and afterwards,_ Burke Junior was seen getting into a hackney cab and heading for his townhouse, with the company of none other than Mabel Loxley, the leading Gaiety girl of London, and quite a pretty young miss, as _toxic_ on the stage as she is off it, reputed to have a string of lovers dotted throughout Mayfair. And now, it appears, has found, dare this author say, _dishonest,_ pleasurable company with Mr Burke the younger.

Perhaps it would do Miss Elizabeth no harm to indulge more in the Duke’s affections, as Marcus Burke clearly has more unsavoury pastimes on his mind regarding various stage girls.

And, after all, Lady Mottram is have heard Mrs Sharpe to be crowing quite fantastically to her about the gifts Sir Thomas has lavished upon the family, Roses, sweets, jewellery, poetry...

Quite a _superior alternative_ to Mr’s Burke, this author dared say. It seems Sir Thomas would be saving Miss Elizabeth from a _most_ imprudent match.

 _Hurrah!_ This author declared, _Bravo_ Miss Farrow. Her Duke in shining armour seems to have appears in the nick of time…

Finally, someone take the gel off the marriage mart. This author is growing weary of hearing of her charms and looks have most young bachelors _beguiled_ , and quite stupid.(Mind, they were quite as such before her looks graced them anyway. This author would like to note that as soon as the general crowd of males find one girl in London to be pleasing, they follow her about most keenly like a herd of mentally deficient sheep.)

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 6th ~

~

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Gods of Handsomeness, Fat Canines, and Long Walks...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, but more to come soon....
> 
> \- Author  
> x

 

 

 

~ Elizabeth's Dress for this Chapter of her outing ~

 

~ Miss Violet Eliza Burchrowe ~

 

* * *

 

 

~

 

“It was most strange, Violet, I grant you. The most unsavoury display of ettiquette I have ever beheld, and, to top it off, Mrs Sharpe was postively frothing at the mouth because of it…”

Elizabeth informed her close friend, Miss Violet Eliza Burchrowe, as they walked side by side, happily wandering under the cool sunshine, and still air of Russell Square.

Violet had joined the three ladies Farrow, Elizabeth, Felicity and Araminta, on their jaunt into the Milliners – Felicity insisted she needed new laced gloves for the ball, and Elizabeth needed a mask to go with her costume. And as Araminta had been bristled into a most uncouth state by the happenings of yesterday, she had also decided that Elizabeth must have new pretty things to wear to the masquerade ball Friday night.

And she had been moved as such into a state of irritation and affrontery, because Marcus Burke did _not_ call upon Elizabeth yesterday, as he had promised to do so.

There had been outcry in the Farrow household. Mrs Sharpe had been raging and snarling, storming about the place rattling off that it was the height of impolite ignorance, how could he have _snubbed_ the woman he was wishing to court in _such a manner?_ And if she had it her way she’d have him flogged for such disrepectful insolence. Elizabeth, however, listened politely with her genteel look on her face, It wouldn’t do any good to let Mrs Sharpe know that, on the inside, she was still tingling with the indulgence of Sir Thomas’s kisses.

Mrs Sharpe then felt moved to declare that Elizabeth had full entitlement to dismiss and reject Marcus Burke next time, if he _dared_ or bothered to call on her. And that when he saw her at Lady Hartwright’s ballt his Friday, then he was going to kick himself for how lovely she looked. Especially with one handsome Duke at her side. Whose attentions, Elizabeth was warned, she would receive _most wholly_.

She had smiled til she looked like a looney at that. _Gladly,_ she thought to herself. She remembered laughing as her father interjected himself on the words Araminta was rattling off to her, peering down over his paper from across the room, eyes beading with mirth and pride behind his spectacles as he smiled to his eldest.

“I _told you_ he was odious, my dear Libby.” Sir Richard added. “But now, I have a feeling that you are not the least bit downhearted about Mr Burkes snubbing you..?” He asked.

Elizabeth burst into a smile, laughing through her words.

“I dare say not at all, Sir.” She beamed, chortling through her words, conveying how little she truly did care for the man now she had Sir Thomas.

Mr Farrow smiled widely, before his paper was up across his eyes again. But not before he could usher a look across to Mrs Sharpe, who stood floundering in ire and wrath at being disparaged by Marcus Burke. It was a look that vexed her greatly, and unsettled her nerves, it seemed to say in a manner most smug, I-Told-You-So-My-Dear’

Elizabeth Farrow, then stood. Clutching onto her new favourite book. ‘Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell’. Kissed Mrs Sharpe on the cheek, and flounced away upstairs to the second Library.

“Have no heavy heart over the matter, Mrs Sharpe. I would not wish Mr Burke back again in such fervent haste. Sir Thomas is quite plentiful enough of a suitor for me.” She beamed, lifting her blue skirts up, and sweeping out of the room. Grinning like a medicated fool.

Mrs Sharpe turned to see her husband clutching the paper across his face. And she stood there, her mouth gaping like a guppy fish, before she shut it, flittering about as she tried to right herself. Not able to believe it all.

“Don’t worry dear.” Richard Farrow spoke, not having lowered the Times.

“A Duke is the only man wanting to court her now, Is he not? I wagered you’d be over the moon about that? It was _most lucky_ I sent for him to dine with us, was it not?”

He spoke. Araminta just knew he was smiling with fanatical glee that his match making attempts had outbid hers. He had seeked to outdo her attempts as soon as he had come to know Sir Thomas’s amiable character. Plotting all along to invite him to dinner so that he could start the easy process of falling madly in love with his daughter. It had been a strategy of his _all along._

“ _Pray, do not vex me, Sir_.”

She had gritted back lowly through clenched teeth. Before sweeping out of the room. She was in dire need of a tonic now. Her head was starting to pain her also with the strain of all the incident. 

Sir Richard was left chuckling to himself…

Subsequently, as to Mrs Sharpes wishes to see Elizabeth most beautifully attired for Friday, next morning, by twelve o’clock, they had all been in the hall, ready to leave, coats, gloves and hats on. They were also taking Aristotle for a walk through Russell park on their way to the Milliners for Felicity and the Dress makers for Elizabeth.

They were all gathered to leave when Violet Eliza Burchrowe, Elizabeth’s eldest and dearest friend, called over to see how she was faring with her suitors.

 It was not uncomon for the two girls to call upon each other most frequently, they often took tea at each others houses two or three times a week. They were as thick as thieves, and to their supreme delight, they lived down opposite ends of Montague Street, so they were overjoyed as little girls, to find they were neighbours too. At balls, the two could always be seen gabbling away to one another eagerly, smiling and grinning away. Violet was a supremely sweet girl, and a Elizabeth’s best friend. They oft joked that they were secretly twins, swapped at Birth. As Elizabeth’ s middle name was _Violet_ , and Violet’s was _Eliza_ , that they were indeed, twins seperated at their birth.

The only downfall to that plan, was that they didn’t much look alike. Violet had terribly long tumbling locks of rich brown hair, coiled tight into walnut coloured curls. Her eyes were a green to look at, but they shifted into tones of hazel in the sun. Her skin was not as pale as she often remarked she’d like it to be. And she always moaned that her beauty paled in comparison to that of Elizabeth’s.

Violet would always slump down in her seat and remarked with distain that her looks were terribly _bland_. Most definitely _not_ helped by Elizabeth’s outstanding virility and beauty, and the flare of Miss Farrow's hips were remarked throughout Bachelor’s in London to make birds _sing_ when she drew near. Whereas, Violet, herself, she often grumped morosely, would be lucky enough if a bird did it’s _buisness_ on her _bonnet_ _when she_ drew close.

She was admired by no such gaggle of men throughout London. She, much like her friend, enjoyed her life as a maiden, she too read books with vigour, enjoyed taking tea with Elizabeth, and long walks through hyde park with her own dog, Brunel. Whom, it had to be said, was not a dignified canine. He was a wide lumbering Corgi, who waddled everywhere and had a spoilt diet of leftovers and too much love. Subsequently, Elizabeth could see the little toddling wobble of her friends, _plump_ , dog strain on it’s lead to get to Aristotle. Whose own tail wagged furiously at seeing the butter coloured wobbly mass of fur that made up Brunel. He was a sweet animal really, Elizabeth supposed, beady little brown eyes, wet soot black coloured nose, and a lollopy tongue that flapped about when he tried – hilariously – to run.

“Violet.” Elizabeth had greeted, beaming with delight on seeing her, crossing to place a kiss on her acquaintances cheek.

“Excellent timing, We were just off to the Milliner’s for Felicity, and were going to take Aristotle through Russell square, oh, won’t you join us?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’d adore it. And I pray, you simply _, MUST_ tell me of this Duke, Sir Thomas… Lady Jane Prideblight’s gossip column speaks of _little_ else….”

Violet smiled, linking her arm through Elizabeth’s as they started off out the house down the steps. Aristotle straining on the lead Felicity held in her hands.

Aristotle, was, perhaps a polar opposite of Brunel. He was a terrior – _a terror_ more like – whose legs were long and gangly, and his body small, covered in wiry bristled fur. His snout was long, as was his beard and eyebrows. He too had a coal black nose and beady mischevous little eyes, his fur was a silvery white, dotted with streaks of beige and grey spots on his saddle and legs. His ears too of a musky sienna colour. And often the dog would cause such mischief about the house, Elizabeth didn’t half wonder if he had the spirit of _the devil_ in him. He buried twigs behind the sofa cushions, tried to steal scraps from cooks bins, and just generally grated _so_ upon Mrs Sharpes nerves most greatly...

Elizabeth _adored_ the cheeky mongrel down to the last wisp of fur on his head.

As Elizabeth and Violet got down to the street, with Araminta and Felicity following them, they all three, apart from Elizabeth, were gabbling eagerly over the duke. Elizabeth held back, smiling, as her three accomplices gaggled about her.

“Did you know, he is most enamoured with her? and he brought gifts enough for all of us…” Mrs Sharpe smiled.

“Not to mention he kissed her most madly when Mrs Sharpe and I left the room..” Felicity grinned, eyes malicious and cheeky.

“ _Felicity!”_

Elizabeth chided, her cheeks growing quite hot.

Violet's mouth hung open in a smile. 

" _What?"_ The youngest Farrow gaped. 

"He  _Did!_ And you can't deny. Because when we came back with the tea his lips were much redder before, as were yours. And your hair had been mussed at the back..." Felicity cooed. Seeing her sister redden. 

“Well. Miss Farrow, it seems he is most taken with you.” Violet grinned, waggling her brown brows at her friend, who patted her softly with her hand. Trust Elizabeth, she could never harm a _flea._

“Brunel. Leave!” Violet barked out as the dog dived for a steaming lump of horse droppings on the road.

Elizabeth smiled.

“So, do you think Marcus Burke will receive you again after his rude refusal of you?” Violet asked. Her eyes looking over to her friend, who looked back, and had quite the widest grin on her lips she had ever seen.

“I am in no hurry to wish him back again. As far as I am concerned, the drunken lout can go away, and stay away..” She beamed.

“Such words..” Violet gasped.

“How so?” Elizabeth asked, tone searching.

Violet stuttered and tried to gather her words in her head for a moment.

“I’ve, I don’t, come to think of it I do not think I have _ever_ heard you talk down to someone, not in al the one and twenty years I have known you…” She described.

“Well..” Elizabeth held out.

“Mr Burke is, I grant the man, a handsome fellow. But, his manners and words are about as friendly and polite as they are obliging.” Elizabeth explained, as the two ladies waited a moment to cross the street.

“Which is?” Violet asked.

“Not the least bit so. Not one jot.” She cut off.

“I think you love the Duke a great deal, Elizabeth, especially if you allow him to _kiss_ you, on the _mouth_ , in _broad daylight_ in the front parlour…” Violet hushed softly. Watching her friend blush again, she was doing that a lot this morning…

“He is _so very_ amiable…” Elizabeth sighed with a smile, looking down at her skirts with a dreamy not-quite-here look on her face.

“And rich…”

Felicity added with cheek as they got to the park, and she steamed ahead of them, running as she held up her skirts, aristotles lead in the other hand as she found a stick and threw it for the canine.

“And _hugely_ generous…” Mrs Sharpe grinned. Before she chided Felicity that it was not becoming for young ladies to _run, as such. And she ought be careful how high one hitches ones skirt, in public, no less…_

“Did you know he brought me this _very fine_ brooch…” Mrs Sharpe supplemented. Making her chest prominent so Violet could see the dark black jewel on a silver oval that glinted in the sunlight, winking at her.

“He gave Felicity some sweets, and to Elizabeth, a book of poetry no less..” Mrs Sharpe beamed, back was the –I’ve-got-the-world-on-a-platter hint of pride in her eyes.

“I fear, Elizabeth, that I may need find some new female acquaintance very shortly, less you make my life look evermore deploably boring.” Violet grinned, watching as Elizabeth rubbed her friends hand soothingly.

“Violet. You will fall _head_ over _heels_ for a man one day soon, and when you do, I pray you will have kept me as a friend to tell me every _last sordid_ detail..” Libby smiled.

Violet looked her friend in the eyes and gave her a wry smile and a look of disbelief crossed her deep brown eyes.

“Maybe your Duke has a rich handsome cousin?” Violet asked. This caused Elizabeth to throw her head back and laugh.

“ _Oh Violet.._ ” She spoke through a half laugh. “I am quite confident you’ll not need any help from me. You have the most stubborn manner and a beautiful disposition. I wouldn’t be surprised if a secretive shy man somewhere, isn’t half in _love_ with you already…” Elizabeth smiled and winked.

“You’re a very kind Liar, Elizabeth. Always have been.” Violet smiled out.

“There goes that stubborn flare..” Elizabeth counteracted.

They all walked in silence for a moment, watching as Brunel huffed and puffed, belly dragging on the dewy grass below as he wobbled to keep up. Sniffing idly at this and that. In the meantime, she had quite lost sight of Felicity and Aristotle. She suspected Felicity was most probably flirting with the nearest ten and six old boy, not paying her dog any heed. The damn dog was probably off his lead and terrorizing squirells somewhere…

“ _Oh,_ I read the most disgraceful shred of gossip in Lady Jane’s column today, I forgot to tell you. You were in it…” Violet spoke up after a minute or two. Grinning inanely.

If there was one thing about Violet that vexed Elizabeth greatly, it was that she adored reading gossip columns. Lined with every nitty gritty detail of what people of London society got up to that would incite scandal. This caused Libby to roll her eyes and rather lean towards the notion that _the bin_ , would be a better place for gossip cloumns to line.

The two girls were walking quite briskly now, ahead of Mrs Sharpe who had stopped to speak to Lady Mottram. Elizabeth and Violet gained speed ahead, but gave the elder women a graceful curtsey as they walked on. Felicity also caught up with them, going to Mrs Sharpes side with Aristotle straining on his lead. Her sister’s cheeks were quite red, her hat sat askew on her head, as if it had come off when she ran. _Probably after Aristotle in attempts to rescue some poor anima from the beastl,_ Libby thought.

“You know I care not one spec for society gossip authors..” Elizabeth bristled.

“Well, actually…” Violet hushed, looking over her shoulder to make sure that Mrs Sharpe was definitely occupied.

“…It reported that at noon, yesterday, Mr Burke was seen, drunk, stumbling into the Gaiety with some friends, all of whom bachelors, and then he was seen leaving to return to his house with none other than _Mabel Loxley,_ the infamous chorus and stage girl!” Violet shushed to her friend, leaning close to her ear.

Elizabeth felt sullied. That she had let such a man as that into her home, listened to his tales. Served him tea. Possibly even had inclinations – before the Duke came along – to marrying him. What kind of sordid affair would that be? That she would be married off to someone who would most probably find comfort outside her house as a husband. She swallowed, she felt sick to her stomach. Her blue gloved hand going to press there as if to quell it. Violet noticed her friend had gone a little green looking..

Violet’s face dropped.

“Oh, my Libby! I‘m so sorry, I didn’t think..” She admonished herself.

“No, heaven’s, Violet, I’m fine.” She rasped. “I just, It’s a shocking thing to admit that piece of information is of little next to atonishment to me, Marcus Burke is, he’s. He’s _not kind_.” She added.

Violets perfectly lovely face creased down, brows pulled too as she listened.

“He warned me, horrible things, awful words, I shan’t repeat them. But, he told me he would not take kindly to me if I took the Duke for a husband.” Libby admitted, getting the secret off her chest.

Violet didn’t like one bit, the hint of worry she saw in her kind friends eyes.

“Well. He better watch his back, saying _such_ things, now you have a titled gentleman to protect your interests.” Violet spoke forcefully.

“He’s not _my_ titled gentleman.” Libby insisted, fiddling nervously with her glove in a way that made Violet know she wished he was. That flush decorating her cheeks. He eyes on the floor again.

“You’ve _kissed_ the man, Elizabeth Farrow. He’s as good as. And totally _smitten_ with you, I’m sure of it.” Violet spoke gently with a wide smile.

“Maybe..” Libby smiled, still gazing down at her folded hands.

“I say, why is that gentleman pointing at you..” Violet asked.

“What gentleman?” Libby asked, throwing her head up and looking around, they were in the centre of the park. And many figures were taking strolls on the pleasant sunshine of the afternoon.

“Over there, look…” Violet encouraged, tilting her head over to the North east corer of the park, intersecting right their path. As they were coming from the southwest.

“Who is it?” Elizabeth asked, straining her eyes to try and see.

“I can’t tell myself.” Violet winced, also squinting to try and see.

“Well, we may want to stop examining him as if we are squinting old biddies..” Elizabeth added.

“Shush.” Violet added. “He’s moving closer now, and I think I can make out that another gentleman is with him…”

“Wake me when this get’s interesting…” Elizabeth added drily.

“ _Oh, OH. Oh,_ Elizabeth, It’s Benedict Carlton! And the gentleman beside him is, well, I’d say next to Mr Carlton he is quite the _handsomest gentleman_ I’ve ever _seen_. That long hair _looks divine_ , and those eyes, their like diamonds..” Violet dreamt aloud.

Elizabeth head whipped around faster than a heartbeat. Her eyes looking across to see a handsome, black haired gentleman, clad in dark colours, walking next to Mr Carlton, smiling like the devil.

“Elizabeth, do you know him?” Violet asked in a hot whisper,

“Could you introduce us?” She added as the two men drew closer.

Violet watched as her friend could not take her eyes off of the handsome black haired god of good looks.

Her smile grew, intensifying all the while.

“Violet Burchrowe, meet Sir Thomas Kenworthy, The Duke of Chatsworth.”

Elizabeth smiled, her eyes not having left the approaching man for a second…

 

The resulting look of horror on Violet’s face was priceless…

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Walking, Talking, and Enamoured Couples...

 

It was a pleasant day in London. And much to Sir Thomas’s surprise, Benedict had even been so good as to join his house guest for breakfast, at the shockingly early time of ten past eight. Benedict had damn near stuck his dinner knife into Sir Thomas’s thigh, as the gentleman’s first response at seeing the lethargic man – who oft it had to be said, laid abed til noon – stride downstairs to take breakfast, surfaced bathed, washed, shaven and dressed all before ten o’clock, Was to lean across and clap his palm to his friend’s forehead, asking him if he bore a fever.

Nonetheless, Thomas had smiled his wide charming smile, ignored Benedict’s scowl, and miraculously managed to survive breakfast with his friend without the hindrance of a knife being daggered into his leg. And, afterwards after Thomas wrote more of his correspondance, both to Iris, and to settle some tenant problems back in Derbyshire, Benedict had read idly, and swanned about being most irrtating to his friend, insisting that he was quite, bored.

As Benedict looked out of doors and declared it to be a most pleasing day, He suggested they take a walk through Russell Square. Sir Thomas didn’t mind this at all, but that he had to answer some letters first if they were going to make it to Chatsworth by weeks end. But after half an hour of Benedict being the most annoying man in christendom, Sir Thomas then vowed he would do _anything_ to get the damned man to stop annoying him most greatly.

He had been amusing himself for the past half hour by flicking little pieces of balled up paper at Tom’s back, seeing how _fair_ his aim was. Sir Thomas, who had been sat facing away from the infantile _chump_ at the small writing desk in the front room, had to put up with tiny globes of writing paper hitting his back in rapid sucession, circumvented across the room from the futon where his friend reclined, oft with a hissed curse following the assualt, curses such as;

 _‘damn!’_ or ‘ _blast!’_ , or ‘ _botherations!.’_

Or, if his aim was astonishingly respectable, and managed to hit the back of his head, or his upper ear, He would then hear a jovial celebratory whisper of ‘ _Bullseye_ ’

Sir Thomas, as a consequence to his acquantainces newfound little game, had leapt from his chair like a shot after approximately what felt like the 10,000th ‘ _Bullseye_ ’ and daggered a glare that could have intimatidated Napolean Bonaparte and all of his French Armed Forces. Looking back to see his nuisance of a companion giving him a ridiculously outlandish and annoying grin. Sat with his long legs folded over the arm of the sofa as he grinned like he had quite gone stupid.

Sir Thomas then remembered smiling wryly to himself and thinking… _Gone Stupid? Why, Heavens no. That bothersome menace was already there…_ _Reigning Title of Stupid._

_Prince of all that is royally stupid_

 

_King and grand surveyor of all stupidity._

_Emperor of stupidness._

His friend answered the glare with an infuriatingly cheeky grin, swinging his legs over the arm of the futon, and asking in akin to manner that made him seem like a despondent toddler;

“Can we go for a walk _now?_ _I’m jolly_ bored…” He bleated.

Thomas grit his jaw.

“Before I quite find a way to _somehow kill_ you using only my ink pen, yes, I suggest walk for the sake of your impermanence.” He snarled in terse temper.

“You narking sod.” He had added under his breath.

Benedict grinned all the more. Throwing a ball of paper over his shoulder as he swaggered out of the room with cocky confidence. Seeing that his credulous and enraging actions had got the better of his friend.

So, Both gentleman pulled on their coats and hats, Benedict grabbed his cane, Wheras Thomas decided to leave this. The sun was shining merrily down upon London, so it would be of little use to him. And they had set off…

They talked idly about Politics until Benedict decided it too dull and mundane, In a way only Benedict _could._

They instead moved onto discussing other, more personal matters, relating to Sir Thomas’s buisness about town, and about matters relating to one certain Miss Elizabeth Farrow.

“So, you quite like this woman then?”

Benedict asked as they came to the North East corner of Russell square. Seeing that many other titled ladies and gentleman had chosen to take a stroll about London aswell. Well, mostly Mama’s and their frilly silly girls, as Benedict likes to refer to them. Already they had passed three young Miss’s whom they had made the pleasure of meeting once before. And Benedict had given each of them that melting debonair smile of his until they went quite pink and damn near tripped over their own feet. Their Mama's – who did obviously _not_ approve of such attentions – dragged their daughters out of the path almost by thwir ears, out of the way of who was reputed to be the most _dangerous_ Rake in all of London. The danger being, that Benedict _knew_ he was the _worst sort_ of Rake, he knew the _true limits_ of his dangerous smile and his deadly charms, This – to society mama’s – meant that just being within walking distance of the man was throroughly _ill-advised._

Especially with swayable young ladies present. They were a rakes veritable _prey_. 

“I dare say so, yes.” Thomas smiled.

“I was afraid of that. You know she will not be easy to obtain…”

“Afraid of it?” Sir Thomas asked.

“You’ve fallen head over heels for one of the most desirable and well known women in London. It will not be a quiet, or bothersome free chase for her hand..” Benedict warned.

“Of all the things you warn me about, you chose this? You, the man who can go from none to three mistresses in one week…” Sir Thomas stated.

Benedict levelled his friend a shrewd look, that made him look like he knew what he was talking about.

“She must be mentioned in gossip columns every damn day. Which means when you begin to court her, so, by extension, shall you” Benedict added.

“Of this I am aware…” Sir Thomas pointed out.

“But I fear sir, that as you are a gently bred gentleman, It is my duty as an avid attendee of silly balls and social norm, that this fact shall mean you will not be easily led to her, nor she to you. The whole of London knows Marcus Burke is seeing her too, and they will go to great lengths to remind you of that. Furthermore, every Mama with a girl aged ten and six or over will want to steer you away if they find you are the least little bitty _bit_ disinclined from her.” He notified

“What am I? A Galleon? No Mama nor her _silly frilly_ girls, as you say, shall succed in _steering_  me from Elizabeth. I am courting her. Aswell _as, othe_ r, things..”

Sir Thomas grinned. It wasn’t often that the man let his charm seep into his handsome smile, but now was such an occasion, and Benedict noticed this with prying interest.

“Something you have not told me?” He asked.

“Yes.” Sir Thomas grinned.

Benedict raised a brow.

Sir Thomas stood firm.

“Well?” Benedict pushed.

“Well what?”

“Don’t be endearing. Tell me at once…”

“I may not want to tell the vexation who flicks paper at me what happened when I called upon her yesterday…” Thomas eluded.

Benedict wanted to hit him.

“For gods sake, man. Out with it!” He demanded

“You petty gossip mongerer..” Sir Thomas accused.

“… and yet I thought you so unflappable and distanced from shreds of paltry natterings.”

Benedict glared at his friend like he was imagining bringing down the tip of his cane sharply onto his foot.

“Before I appease the wishes in my head, and _throw_ you under a carriage. Tell. Me.” He demanded through gritted teeth.

“She certainly returns my affections. I could tell that much from when I kissed her.”

Sir Thomas beamed. Remembering the sheer wonder of the embrace he shared with her. It had left him in the clouds all evening.

“You’ve kissed her?”

Benedict asked, surprisingly shocked for a man as acclimated to passion as he.

“Pray tell, how on _earth_ did you manage that with Minty Sharpe hovering over you like a match making vulture?” He asked.

“She was out of the room at this point. I would _never_ embrace a woman anywhere on her persons with her chaperone sitting two chairs away. You mistake me for a man of lesser respect and dignity.”

Benedict leered at him.

“So. Miss Farrow has succumbed to your lust, then, has she?”

He asked with a grin that was all fox, and no hint of the man behind it.

“She would make a very fine Duchess. I’d swap just _one_ of her kisses for everything I own. Or hold most dear.”

Sir Thomas dreamed. Thinking of how soft her pink lips were, and how she had arched unto him.

“Well, that’s foolish. She’s only a woman. And an innocent to boot, her kisses can’t be that magnificent, she is not yet well trained” Benedict supposed.

“You make her sound alarminy like a dog. And, You haven’t kissed her.” Sir Thomas beheld.

“Not yet I haven’t”

Benedict grinned. His blue eyes sparkling like two polished windows catching the sun on a bright summers afternoon.

The smile instantly faded from Sir Thomas’s face.

“I say, Is your sister still as handsome as ever?” Benedict asked suddenly. Inclining his favour to the _lovely_ Iris Thatcher-Kenworthy

“Right. I’m going to hit you now. Once for that comment, and second for stating your wishes to kiss Elizabeth. Where would you like me to aim first?” Sir Thomas growled, flexing his hand.

Benedict’s eyes roved across to ahead of their path, before they went quite brilliantly charming in the way they lit up. And his smile increased ten fold.

Miss Elizabeth Farrow was gliding straight in their direction, followed by a gaggle of ladies. That Violet Burchrowe girl by her side, talking away to her friend.

“Pray. Sir Thomas, You wouldn’t wish violence upon me with such a gently bred lady making haste in our direction, would you? Because that to me, and indeed, to her, would manifest that you are of a vicious tempered man to your future Duchess…” Benedict grinned

Sir Thomas snapped into alertness like a dog who’d just spied a squirell running up a tree. His head whipped round so far Benedict feared he’d do himself an injury. And his icehip coloured eyes scanned across every figure he could happen across.

“Miss Elizabeth?” He asked, searching for her.

Benedict pointed.

And sure enough, there she was, walking along at a slow pace, with an unknown companion on her arm. Both ladies dressed fetchingly in striking hues of blue. Elizabeth wore a blue bowler hat covering her wild red hair, maybe that’s why Sir Thomas hadn’t spotted her straightaway, his eyes were trained to look for the beautiful red hues of her untameable tresses. The girl she was walking with, and talking too was also uncommonly pretty. He hadn’t met her before, long curly brown hair, and eyes the colour of melted choclate, and just as warm, he thought. She too, a most handsome girl. Eyes and fair skin brought out by the striking sapphire blue of her dress. Whereas Miss Elizabeth looked heavenly in her powder blue striped gown, adorned with orange shades of floral pattern that quite matched her hair.

They drew ever, closer, neither men nor women speaking to their friends. And Sir Thomas watched as Miss Elizabeth’s companion looked as if she’d just been told cheese was harvested from the moon, her cheeks tinted a pretty – _embarassed_ – shade of pink. Elizabeth However, was smiling at him, _for him,_ and her smile directed to _him alone,_ as he approached her.

“Good Afternoon Miss Farrow.”

Sir Thomas smiled, looking at her face and knowing that her beautiful features were always fairer in person when compared to the jaded conjourings of his memory.

And then she smiled wider, her lips tipping up at the corners, making dimples crease in her cheeks. And Sir Thomas got so very lost as to where he was. His heart was beating like a caged animal and he wanted to kiss her again. _Right there._ On the very spot she stood. In public, and out of doors _no less_.

So lost was he, that it took a nudge from Benedict’s elbow into his back to tug him back down to reality.

It was damned inconvenient that. Nonetheless, he remembered where, and who he was.

Benedict watched as the reliable, and passive man who had once been his friend now turned into a stumbling, blubbering mush of a boy in the presence of Miss Farrow.

And he quite agreed what Sir Thomas had said earlier. _She would make a fine Duchess…_

 _But, Sir, if you should favour a most contented and blissful marriage. It would do you well to not have to pick your jaw up from the floor every time you look at your wife,_ he thought.

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More coming, sorry it’s so short!

x

Trying my best to be speedy

\- Author

x


	15. Lustful Reasoning, Balls and Blissful Ignorance...

 

 

Elizabeth and Violet both curtseyed in union to the two gentleman, after which, Sir Thomas and Sir Benedict bowed to them both, tipping their hats slightly. Elizabeth would not tear her eyes away from the Duke, even if her own stepmother’s life depended on it. He was examining her, yet again, she noted, in the same manner of which he always did. Like she was seemingly the only female creature to _ever_ enchant his gaze. His smile was twice as beautiful as she cared to remember it, and it held twice the powerful potency to make her knees tremble. Sir Thomas then took her gloved hand, swiping his thumb across the blue moleskin fabric, before leaning down to place a singular kiss upon it that made her go flushed, and feel quite silly.

“I cannot tell you how delightful it is to make your presence by sheer good chance, Miss Elizabeth. Fortune is a kind thing indeed, to us today.” Sir Thomas flattered, and winked.

 _Oh, god,_ Elizabeth choked, her lungs stumbling for air. _He has no idea how arresting his charming winks were. How could god have been so cruel upon the female sex, to deliver such a man with shamefully handsome looks upon her?_

“You are too kind sir.” Elizabeth smiled.

“I must beg to diverge the truth, Miss Farrow, and to agree with my friend. An idle walk turns into a blissful outing once having made your exquisite company, Miss Elizabeth.” Sir Benedict added, smile tipping up at the sides in a way that made both ladies fidget with heat flushing their own skin. Here was a Rake, make no mistake about it.

“Well then, If I am inclined to agree from the good opinion of both you gentlemen, a mere trip to the milliners has turned into quite a delight..” Elizabeth smiled.

Sir Thomas smiled wider, his eyes melting into hers like hot chips of blue ice, even under the brim of his top hat, they still remained twice as sharp and lurid. And they were examining Miss Farrow as if he very much wished to kiss her again. Company and situation be damned, Elizabeth was no fool to this, matter of fact, Sir Benedict noted that the woman could not draw her lovesick eyes away from his friend either. He grinned, here was an enamoured and courting couple. Make no mistake about it…

Violet gave her a not so subtle shove in the back, sending her sprawling forwards a fraction by the blow from her sharp elbow.

“Sir Thomas Kenworthy, Sir Benedict Carlton, may I introduce you to my companion, Miss Violet Burchrowe.”

Libby spluttered, remembering there was a world going by around her, that she was ignoring as she got sucked into the labyrinth of Sir Thomas’s eyes.

“It is, indeed, a pleasure, Madam.” Sir Thomas smiled. Taking her hand and giving a kiss upon it also. Elizabeth was relieved to see Violet tint a shade or two redder. It was jolly affirming to know that it wasn’t just she, who fell prostrate at his feet every time he smiled, or even looked in her direction.

Sir Benedict stepped forwards to kiss her hand also. It was at this point that they heard the rapid succession of clacking heels tottering their quick way down to them both across the path. And sure enough, Mrs Araminta Sharpe appeared, smile stretching her lips wide, and her cheeks red as she had kept a hasty pace in running to reach the gaggle of people who were so far ahead of her. Felicity was by her side, grinning stupidly aswell. The only ones who weren't smiling like they had been hit on the head, were Aristotle and Brunel, who were in fact sniffing idly at blades of various grass. Brunel had taken the pause as an opportunity to plonk his plump bottom down by Violet’s feet and let his tongue loll lazily out of his mouth. The exercise proving too much for the portly canine.

“Good heavens, girls, a more hasty pair I could not imagine..” Mrs Sharpe huffed, before smiling sweetly at the two men. Thomas swore he heard Benedict sigh in exasperation. He famously distained silly Mama’s, and she was exactly that.

“Sir Benedict, Sir Thomas, we are delighted to meet you. And so opportunistically at that..” She beamed.

Both gentlemen smiled and tipped their hats to the elder woman.

“If I may, Mrs Sharpe, I should wish to request the privilege of walking with Miss Farrow, alone?” Sir Thomas asked kindly, both hands bent behind his back as he smiled most nicely at the woman.

“Of, But of course Sir, you honour us so.” Mrs Sharpe insisted.

“Shall we, Elizabeth?” He asked, eyes boring into her own again, as he offered her his elbow. To which she smiled, and took it.

Violet whispered one last crude statement of “I-want-every-last-detail-“ before Elizabeth glided away on Sir Thomas’s arm. Mrs Sharpe and Felicity stayed joined behind Violet and Benedict.

Sir Benedict took the opportunity to step forwards and engage Miss Burchrowe.

“If I may, Madam. I should like to walk with you. No lady should be left unattended…” He insisted.

Violet blushed, but then tilted her chin forwards and accepted his arm.

“I should be delighted, Sir.” She exclaimed, walking gently by his side. Brunel waddling his fat bottom and pudgy caramel coloured legs along to keep pace.

“Perhaps you would be so good, Miss Burchrowe, as to humour me with how on earth two very sensible people, such as our friends, can manage to go quite idiotic when they look at each other.”

“I believe it is a remarkable phenomenon which a man such as yourself, Sir Benedict, is quite unfamiliar with.” She explained.

“Which is, Madam?” He asked.

“Love.” Violet smiled.

“A sharp blow, My Lady.” Benedict grinned, looking quite impressed.

“You deserve no less. Sir. Lady Jane Plidebright considers you the most perilous Rake in all of London.” She smiled.

Benedict was nearly aghast. But his impressed smile remained on his lips. She had back bone, this demure looking, rather pretty, miss.

“Ah yes. I believe my repute has been quite dissected by the severe pen lashings of that authoress.” He smiled.

“Most young ladies are warned not to be within 200 yards of you as a consequence, Sir.”

She offered, swerving Brunel’s lead out of the way of a puddle. Which the damned dog wobbled right through anyway.

“And what of you? Miss Burchrowe? Have you been warned to keep away from the hazardous likes of me?”

He asked, his voice dropping rather low as his eyes focused for a second on her mouth. She had quite _a lovely mouth._

“No.” She offered.

He tipped a brow.

“Surely you jest?” He asked, voice still an octave below husky.

“I am _not most girls_ , Mr Carlton.”

She stiffened, not flushing at his rumbling voice, nor affected by his gaze.

“I’m quickly learning that fact myself, I daresay I quite agree, Miss Burchrowe. You are very… _Stimulating_ company…” He vouched.

She met his eyes for a moment, face still resolute, and smiling, before she looked away, in front of them.

A couple of paces ahead, and Elizabeth and Sir Thomas were getting on significantly better than that of their companions.

“I see your stepmother wears the brooch I gave her…” He offered, smiling to her.

Elizabeth laughed slightly.

“I wager we shall have to pry it from her cold dead hands when she passes. She is most exulting in receiving a gift from you, Sir Thomas.” Elizabeth smiled.

Thomas laughed at her wit.

“It was the least I could do, she is allowing me to see her lovely daughter after all..” He complimented

Libby’s knees went rather funny, as they always did.

“Such flattery sir, Surely you can see it leaves me in quite a state..” She blushed, wetting her lips.

_Oh, he wanted her like mad, now._

“Miss Farrow, that is quite the _point_ of my praises” He leaned in close, whispering into her ear.

She tingled all over in the most _wicked_ sense, every hair standing on end, and her skin rippled with gooseflesh…

“..And also because you most fetching when you blush, I rather _adore_ the sight of it.” He explained.

Elizabeth bit her lip. Tugging her lower lip between her teeth as she smiled.

“I am left not knowing if that is quite good, or quite cruel of you..”

She admonished. Looking to him to see his head was leant very close to hers, so close she would just have to lean a mere matter of inches forwards, to slide his lips onto hers. And a testement to how much his wiles affected her, was that she was _seriously_ considering doing it. He was looking down at her like he somewhat wished to do the same.

“Quite _good_ I assure you…” He rasped in a lustful smile.

“Miss Elizabeth, I really would _like_ to kiss you again..” He rambled in a husky desire ridden tone.

“I would sincercely love to let you..” She added, swallowing as her lungs fought valiently for air.

“But we are in public..” Sir Thomas smiled.

“It would incite great scandal…” She added.

“I may have to find you tomorrow night at Lady Hartwright’s ball, and steal you away for a few minutes. She keeps very fine gardens at Belgravia Manor, so I'm told, I’m sure you and I taking a turn about them, would, surely allow time enough for me to kiss you once again…” He explained.

Elizabeth smiled.

“Such underhanded plotting. Sir. Why, anyone could accuse you of having thought the matter through a great deal…” She flirted with a genteel smile and pink cheeks.

Sir Thomas laughed, a wonderfully husky sound.

“Oh, Miss Elizabeth. You’ve no comprehension of how much thought I have given to you since I first met you. You’d be appalled.” He flattered.

“I daresay you’d quite be in the same manner in regards to my own thoughts..” She assured him.

His stomach leapt and clenched at the insinuation that she had been thinking of him, as much as he had been thinking of her.

She watched, looking down as his fingers flexed through her own.

“You know not how I long for the days when I can hold your hand, without the hindrance of a glove between our skin. Nor when I can kiss you freely without permission or reason...”

He dreamt aloud, his thumb finding a tiny patch of skin at her wrist, which left her quite without thought. All she could feel was heat, and desire uncoiling inside her.

“… And, When I am able to see your hair unbound, and twine the beautiful red locks through my fingers. I cannot disclose how fully the sight of that has tortured me.”

“I am sorry to have caused you pain.” Elizabeth rasped.

“Believe me when I say it was unconsciously done and not purposely inflicted at all.” She offered.

He smiled, biting his own lip slightly before he answered.

“It is the most delicious of agonies, Elizabeth.”

He assured her, his thumb climbing higher up her skin, setting her body alight. He watched as her lips gaped and she exhaled a lost breath.

“I am ashamed to reveal that you make me feel things that I am sure a young lady ought not feel towards a gentleman..”

She hushed. Knowing she was being improper. She was referring to the all body twinges that rippled through her with heady delight, whenever he drew near, or looked at her, even.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He breathed, looking like a rascal.

“Will you still allow me to dance with you, tomorrow night? At the masquerade ball?”

He asked, his thumb finding her pulse, which raced under his touch.

“I shan’t wish to dance with anyone else…”

She disclosed, the words of which making them both smile. She was an eligible young lady, she ought take turns dancing with many gentleman. But she only wanted him.

“Then I may have to ask for more than once dance..” He thought aloud.

“But, Sir. That would cause people to gossip most avidly.” She assured him.

“People do little else.” He offered.

She smiled. He was right in that respect. 

“I fear that I wager we will be a most uncaring pair for the social restrictions of society.” She hinted.

“I’m certain we will, Miss Farrow. But I can safely say, that is most agreeable to my mind.”

He beamed as they waked further along, smiling all the while, the both of them eagerly awaiting tomorrow’s ball as if it were their sole reasons for living on earth.

 

~

 


	16. ~ A Note From Your Author~

 

 

 

~ Our Heroine/Hero's Costumes for the Masquerade ball ~

 

* * *

 

 

~ Elizabeth's Costume: ~

~ Elizabeth's Grecian Style Dress~

 

~Elizabeth's hair~

~ Elizabeth's Mask ~

 

~ Her costume is based on the Greek nymph/Goddess/Naiad depicted in Frederick

Leighton's 'Flaming June' Pre-Raphaelite painting. I adore it, and am subtly ignoring the fact it was painted in 1895, and that

this story is set in 1858. (But we can pretend can't we? I bloomin' well hope so...) So her costume is inspired by the woman painted in that scene. Long flowing red hair,

orange draped dress gliding softly over her curves, showing her resting and peaceful form. And of course, to top it off, I have given her a golden jewelled demi mask,

let her flow her hair down, and furnished her with golden satin gloves to finish. Just thought I'd explain all this to better

show the image of the both of them dancing together at the ball in their costumes, we writer's don't have much except black and white words to depict

colours, characters and actions, so I thought I'd take the time to build an image ~

 

~Below is Frederick Leighton's Painting for those who are not familiar: ~

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

~ Sir Thomas's Costume ~

 

 

 

 ~ Thomas's Costume - the man's sword/princely coat obviously, not the dress! ~

 

~ I just had to go and make him Prince Charming, Just because that's what he is to this story for me...

and because, Hiddles in that outfit = _YUM!_ His ink black hair would hair is also styled similarly to the picture ~

 ~His Demi Mask ~

 

~ So, there you go, might make it a tad easier to imagine our couple... ~

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Now, I'm afraid, onto some unfortunate news. I was away most of the weekend visiting a relative in hospital, So I haven't fully finished

this chapter yet, it has been started, and I will aim to finish it by tomorrow so you will all have another update. I am very sorry for this, but one must

remember I am a human being who needs ZZZZZZ's, I am not a robot! And subsequently, that leads me onto some better sunnier things, I just wanted to take the chance, as I

have not done so already, I wanted to take the chance on here to just remark how grateful and delighted I am for all those who have commented and laid praise to this story.

All I can exclaim to this is my solemn thanks, and love right back. And If I could give you a slobbery smacking kiss, then I would. I am very humbled by the praise

and am quite sure I don't deserve it. but thank you all the same. Thank you to those who have clicked on, commented, favourited, bookmarked and Kudos-ed my stuff, It does

mean a lot to me. It makes me smile, makes my world go round, and makes my day (all of the above) to know that my writing is received with fervour. I only say this because

I know there are some people whom I cannot thank (Guests or Nonny's) so, cheers to you, you stunningly lovely people.

from the bottom of my heart, I love the feedback (I have had quite enough nasty negativity in my inbox to last me a lifetime) so everyone

who has taken time to pen nice words in there, I simply love you. no less, no more. I just love you)

 

The update will be with you very soon my dears

thank you for understanding and for being my friend.

 

I adore you for it

 

\- (Sleepy) Author

x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Dancing, Kissing and Everything More...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short, more to come. I promise, life's just a tad hectic for a certain author at the moment! x much love

~

Elizabeth’s stomach, heart, spleen, liver, kidney’s, brain, and every other vital organ she possessed, was positively fluttering with nerves.

The kind of nerves that make your body feel as if you are constantly twisting and moving, like a herd of bees swarming around a hive. Her body felt rootless, and itinerant. She fiddled nervously with her golden silken gloves at the tips of her fingers. Baring her teeth down on the corner of her lip as she looked into the stuffy overcrowded ballroom ahead of her.

It was just Felicity and Mrs Sharpe at her side tonight, Sir Richard had declined _most_ vigorously when it was enquired into his attending the ball. Seeing as he would end up stuffed into a corner with the Mama’s and the Matrons, he insisted that he would stay at home in his study and watch paint dry, for that was marginally more interesting than a night of discussing sordid gossip and the lace trim on gowns. Elizabeth had smiled as he offered the excuse to them all as he waved them off out of the door. Usually, Libby would have wished she could have stayed at home with him. If she had not a date with a handsome Duke to keep on Lady Hartwright’s dancefloor. And a kiss to claim from him in the Hartwright's famed gardens. She had not forgotten that sordid promise, _either_. 

Again, as was becoming routine with this week, she was hurried into a long scorching bath, scented liberally until she reeked of her staple honey and lillies fragrance, before being corseted into yet another garment. Although, for the sake of the humid air in the ballroom, that seemed thick enough to touch, she was glad that her gown was draped and flowing, and that it bared her shoulders and neck, and a large portion of her shoulderblades. To make matters worse upon this evening, it would not help being imprisoned in a body crushing silk dress which would be soaked through by nights end due to all the dancing and the general sticky heat the room provided.

Elizabeth pressed a tentative hand to the corner of her golden jewelled mask, and then flat to her chest, of which was bared modestly by the draped fabric of her orange silk gown. She could feel her heart beating like a caged animal trapped in her rib cage. Yearning to be set free... Her dress was secured on one shoulder like a toga with a golden buckle holding the drapes of the fabric neatly in place on her creamy pale shoulder. Her gown had taken next to no time to slide on, yet her hair had oddly been the most time consuming trait to her appearance this evening. Nessie had her work cut out as she was titled with the job of twisting the thick red tresses back away from Elizabeths face, leaving it unbound so the long curled length of it nearly reached to her elbows down her back, like an auburn waterfall of lavender scented curls. Pinned back from her ears so it brushed against the skin at the top of her upper back. Her golden mask secured and tied in place over her curled red hair. Araminta had insisted upon the use of golden eye paint to cover her eyelids, and for Libby to darken her brows and rouge her cheeks, so under her mask, her eyes glowed bright blue from the candlelight, and the light caught urgently the shimmering flecks of gold above her lids. Overall, Araminta asserted she looked enchanting. And Libby had smiled. It wouldn’t do her well to know that after she had swept out of the house in her velvet blue cloak, and into the awaiting carriage, Mrs Sharpe then turned to Felicity and remarked with a wry grin:

“One Sir Thomas sees all of her bared skin, I daresay the poor gent will perish on the spot.”

She winked. Her pale powdered face and hair creasing into a smile underneath her Marie Antoinette mask and appallingly french styled make up. Her lips heart shaped with pink colour, and the beauty spot near her eye twitching as her wrinkled crows feet made it move due to her creasing leer.

“Second Ward, remember, Mrs Sharpe…”

Felicity growled. Twiddling her staff about in one hand, and her stuffed sheep toy bundled under her other arm. Her brown hair had been secured into tight ringlets, and Mrs Sharpe had helped make the frilly bonnet that sat atop her head. Making her look all the more like Little Bo Peep. After all, that was the only use she served, with a Shepherd’s crook in one hand, and her floppy discloured sheep in the other.

But, Araminta vowed that her second youngest looked abominably cute, and, then with a roll of Felicity’s russet eyes - and after Araminata managed to manouevre her wide circa 1700’s hips out of the front door, with Hawkins assistance of prying the lady out with a shoehorn after she got stuck in the doorframe due to her cumbersome hips - they were _finally_ on their way.

Now, The Farrow Ladies three, elegantly sauntered slowly into the busy twirl of dancing and chatter that filled the heat packed ballroom. It was positively bursting with colour and magnificent other characters. Already Elizabeth had seen A Cleopatra swan by, a Mediaval Knight, sword, holy robes, helmet and all pass her by. A Mermaid, a Leprechaun had come and gone, _two_ Musketeers, and one _Parsnip_ , of all things.... Clearly there was much variation and imagination in abundance to society this year.

They wandered closer to the edge of the dancefloor, seeing more various costumes and colour encircle them as couples swirled about in each other’s arms. One thing that Elizabeth had mentioned she adored, was that the demi masks that covered men and womens eyes alike forced her to really examine who they were. Adding a wonderful sense of ambiguity to the costumes. Of course, there would be no mistaking her for another girl, such pale colouring and fiery coloured curls could be mistaken for none other than ' _that pale beautiful flame haired eldest Farrow girl'_ No _._ There was to be _no_ hiding in plain sight for her in any ballroom anytime soon. 

Elizabeth heard Araminta apologise, yet again, as her vastly expansive hips clipped another person as she moved, sending them sailing to the floor. Already two footmen had been swept clean off their feet by the hoops concealed under her powder pink revolutionary style skirts, trimmed with lace and bustling over her corseted body shape. Her hair had also been piled atop her head, one ringlet hanging down at her nape, her usually mousy brown greying hair dusted a silvery white to coincide with her costume. She had dainty buckled shoes on her feet, and the palest tone that Nessie could muster using a palette of facial paints. Which made her lips and rouged cheeks stand out all the more. The choker and diamonds about the elder woman’s neck glittered with fat drops of light and wealth about her. And Elizabeth wagered Araminta would indeed, be up for the guillotine at the end of the evening, if she sent just _one_ more poor soul crashing to the floor as a consequence of her unsafe hips.

She didn’t even need to look to her left as she heard the definitve sound of a crumpling body thumping to the floor with an “AAHHACCCKK!” and a polite little whisper from her stepmother of _“Oh, I’m so sorry, how terribly clumsy of me!”_ following not long thereafter to know it had happened - yet again. 

Felicity’s costume however, was causing no trouble. She wore a petticoated duck egg blue ensemble, with her laced frilly bonnet and lacy white gloves to match, aswell as a cornflower blue bonnet on her ringlety haired head.  Her legs clad in white stockings and with dainty little pink ballet shoes on her feet to make her appear all the more like Mary with her Little Lamb. Elizabeth wasn’t entirely sure what her costume was, Bo Peep, or Mary, She could not be sure. But she had a sherpherds crook and a rather saggy discoloured, yet fat, toy sheep stuffed under one of her arms. So, by process of elimination and recognition that led many to assume that she was a sheep herderess of _some kind_.

Elizabeth herself had opted for a more, traditional route. Her costume had been based on one of her favourite Pre-Raphaelite Paintings. ‘Flaming June’ by Frederick Leighton. A stunning piece of artwork which she had spent more than a couple of hours admiring at the National Gallery. That was the reason she had draped her body in a modestly revealing grecian style tangerine silk dress, and left her hair unbound, much of it to match the resting figure in the painting. Mrs Sharpe had not been initially keen on the colour of the silk, fearing it would wash her out, but they had agonised over choices at Madam Francois’s until they found a pleasing shade to make her hair brighter, and her skin and eyes aglow with graceful finesse. She felt it was no scandal that a great portion of her upper hald had been left bare by her dress. In fact, she saw many costume about the room that were of a similar design to her own in terms of baring skin. So in that respect, she was not alone. And no one could accuse her of displaying foul dress at a _costume_ party. Not when there were women swanning around in _far less_ than her. Using the costume invitation as a sordid advantageous excuse to _flaunt_ their figures.

Libby felt her costume was plain, elegant and classic. Three things of which she rather liked. She’d leave frippery and fuss to that of the younger debuatantes. _Simplicity_ , she noted, and as far as she was concerned, _was the key to all elegance._

She watched as Araminata and Felicity curtseyed to Lady Hartwright, thanking her for the invitation. The lady herself dressed in a similar dress to that of Mrs Sharpes own, wide hipped and french style costume. Except their hostesses was a royal blue, and she held a mask on a pole to her face. She expressed her delight at seeing her friends attend, making polite chatter with Felicity and Mrs Sharpe. But Elizabeth’s mind was elsewhere, and consequently, her feet started to move her away from the crowds, to a somewhat less heated and cool corner of the ballroom. It was no hardship for her to drift away from her Sister and her Stepmother. The crowds of costumes easily swallowed her up into a sea of riotous colour. If they enquired as to her dissapearence, she could simply lay – _false_ – claim to the fact that she had gotten seperated from them both to quell any suspicion or anger on her leaving.

Her feet were in accordance with her brain and her heart, Which both had ulterior motives for steering her somewhere without much noise or company...

She bit her lip as she craned her neck, scanning over the people who swarmed about the room. Her eyes trained to look for a pair of ice chip coloured blue eyes hiding under the shade of a darkened mask, perhaps? Or even the ink black shade of his medium length hair, swept back from his regally divine face that belonged in reputable and polished Art Gallerys, captured in some pedestal of appreciation. Either sculpture or oils. And Elizabeth swore now, If she had been substantially more up to the task of possessing great skill at sculpting or painting with oils, and she knew she could do his beauty justice, then she’d carve or paint the damn thing _herself._ Because he deserved no such less praises to his handsomeness.

So caught up was she in her own reverie to Sir Thomas’s beauty, she did not see the grinning figure, clad in mediaval prince like garb, move out of the fringes of the shadowy ballroom just behind her. Having just finished engaging Miss Lucinda Edgerton, a very demure wallflower, into a dance just to make the girl smile. His mask jumped a centimetre or two up his face as he smiled widely when he caught sight of the woman ahead of him, looking pleadingly across the crowds. Searching – _fruitlessly_.

The sight of her took away all his breath, and damn near all his sense. All he was left with was the inane desire to continue in her direction…

She looked like a goddess who had the audacity to grace the mortals here tonight with her divine presence. The silken gown she wore, he wanted to feel under his hands. To test the weight of her remarkable curves under the cloak of the shimmering orange silk which he knew would make her twice as alluring to the touch. Her arms were mostly covered with golden hued satin gloves. But he couldn’t deny that seeing the small patch of her shoulder in nothing but bare skin was shamefully to erotic to be true. Her face, he decided, looked alarmingly pretty with the golden mask enhancing her eyes and setting off her sapphire irises and pale skin. He watched as her little tongue darted out to moisten her lips, before dragging her lower lip between her teeth.

_He really couldn’t get enough of that sight..._

But what he hadn’t expected was for the sight of her unbound red hair, and the pale slices of her shoulderblades under her creamy skin to leave him feeling quite so hot and giddy. He wanted to touch her, _everywhere, leave no spot of her skin feeling unloved or worshipped._ He wanted to kiss her with such ferocity and flame that she _begged_ him to claim her. Because then, _he would_. He would drag her off to some quiet corner or deserted room, throw her dress above her hips, kiss her senseless, _again_ , and _own_ her. In all the lustful ways in which a man could own a woman.

He watched her still as she bobbed and craned her neck looking for him among the throngs of people dancing and conversing. But his smile grew wolfishly wide as he pressed his wide soft hand to the side of her hip, able to feel the scorching heat of her soft skin through the fabric. His fingers molding into her fleshy hip. She gasped and jumped back into his touch. Twisting with a surprised smile to see his blue eyes glowering at her lusftully under the shady brim of his gold and black mask as he grinned like the big bad wolf at her, despite the fact he was dressed as the heroic prince. 

“Looking for someone in particular my lady?” He leered.

~


	18. Garden's, Secrets and Swooning Moments..

 

 

So startled was she by his sudden materialisation at her side, that she turned with a gasp, pleasurable shock tingling through her every pore. She became very aware that her cheeks flushed red, but whether that was due to embarrassment at the surprise, or the way his breath rolled so tantalizingly across her ear, she could not decide.

“Sir Thomas.”

She exhaled, through one of her finest smiles. The kind of smile that stupid young men adored to slobber over the sight of, and the kind that was mentioned, _so tirelessly_ , in all its _imbalanced_ charm and glory, in near every gossip paper of discernable repute in London.

But, to him. That smile triggered the deepest of urges to wed her, and continue making her smile that way for the rest of his devoted life to her. It was mad, he knew, but he wanted to keep her smile under lock and key, in secret, so no other but he could admire it. A silly notion perhaps, but his mind cared not one jot about silly protectiveness when it came to her.

She could not deny, she beheld - with thoughts that no unmarried maiden of four and twenty should be inclined to – that he looked _undoubtedly fine_ this evening. Even under the dark shadowed brim of his mask, his eyes still managed to twinkle and burn vividly at her like stars in the heavens. His attire helped add to his ever prevailing character of prince like charm. His costume would have looked more in place in the previous century, he had a moss green coat which was swirled with golden leaves and vines stitched to the front of his coat. Under which, he had on a light blue waistcoat, teemed most fetchingly with a darker blue cravat, knotted about his pale neck in an unconventional style. She scanned downwards to see he had slim breeches on his legs, and tall tan leathered boots up his calves. He even had been so good as to his concern for his costumes welfare, that he had a sword strapped to his side.

Whether it was real or not, she could not discern. She had no experience with swords. _Archery_ , yes, she was proficient at that. Painting and Drawing, she excelled in, the Pianoforte even, but the art of the sword was _not_ in her repertoire.

He had drawn closer to her now, no further than was deemed inappropriate, but close enough so she could see the candlelight dance in his eyes, and make his skin look incredible, were she allowed to touch it, she daren't think how _fine_ his silken skinned jaw would feel traced below her fingers.

She wanted nothing more than to damn this propriety, and etiquette, to rip of these infernal gloves and just be _herself_. Not have to stand straight backed, with the prefect degree of elegance, trying to attempt looking graceful and demure. She wanted to _relax. Alas_ , this Victorian manner would not allow her. Nor would the overstuffed fringes of Lady Hartwright’s packed fit to burst ballroom, either. Judging by the heat and volume of the place…

“You look very beautiful, Elizabeth. Words cannot do you justice..”

Sir Thomas afforded her the compliment, relaying it as he took her hand and placed a kiss upon the back of the glove. She knew it was a standard compliment that had been paid to her many times by men, But only when he said it in such a way did she _truly_ believe it. He spoke with such subtle intensity that she dare not refuse it’s severity for even a second. His eyes grew warm at her, scorching her belly from the inside out. And the way he smiled made her want to frame it, _admire it._ For all the years life had left to give her.

“Thank you, Sir Thomas. You look very dashing, dare I say, you take the masquerade invitation with vigour indeed.”

She beamed back at him as he released her hand, she let her arm float gently back down to her orange chiffon clad side.

“May I ask, your sword, it is real?”

She asked with a touch of humour. The mirth in her eyes and smile made him realise that he didn’t just love her, he _adored_ her. She wouldn’t just be a wife, to him. She would be a best friend. Able to laugh at unfunny things which they would find rip roaringly hilarious.

He chuckled, his hand brushing down to the aforementioned weapon.

“Quite real, Miss Farrow. Rest assured.” He offered.

“I daresay, you won’t find much chance to use it here in Belgravia, in a ballroom filled to the rafters with such, _placid,_ characters…”

She said, the both of them watching in subdued mirth and alarm as an Octopus, all eight limbs accounted for, swaddled by them. Suckers and all on the turquoise blue tentacles. Elizabeth gave the girl under the hideous costume a pitiable kind smile. It was the Pennington’s girl under it, she deduced. Poor Primrose Pennington. Oft remarked by every mama to be _‘too frightfully pale for any colour, and too plump, buttery haired, and rose cheeked to ignore.’_ Elizabeth felt a pang of sorrow for the girl. Watching miserably as she struggled along, attempting to keep her tentacles from tripping anyone. – _goodness, what a sentence that was to utter…_

Thomas watched after the girl too. _Poor thing_ , she already looked exerted from carting the damned silly thing about, feelers dragging on the floor like overly long skirts, hanging down from the bulbously shaped dome of a head that concealed her upper body, shoulders, head and all. He made sure to give her his kindest smile and try not to look too pitiful for her when she was turned his way, seeing that she caught it, and her cheeks flushed into a most fierce shade of pink.

They both gave each other wry smiles after she tottered by, swallowed up into the crowds as easily as if someone was chucking the octopus back into the ocean where it belonged.

“I suddenly feel very slighted as to the efforts of _my_ own garment…”

Elizabeth offered, placing a gloved hand to her partially bared chest.

“All I can exclaim is thank goodness you are of an age, and a sufficiently stubborn tongue, to not allow Mrs Sharpe to dress you in such a manner…” He remarked.

“Mrs Sharpe wouldn’t be _that_ cruel.”

Elizabeth wondered aloud, grimacing with a smile. Half praying that her hopes weren’t wrong.

“I don’t _think_ , anyway.”

“Secretly now thankful you made it out of this house this evening sans four extra limbs?”

Sir Thomas leaned close, asking her with a smile.

She laughed.

“A truer sentence has never been spoken.” She granted him.

“Nor, I daresay, a more _wildly_ inconceivable one..”

She added. He laughed at that.

“How does your Family fare, Elizabeth? I only pray for your sister that Mrs Sharpe doesn’t have her wandering about in some similar ridiculous garb..”

He enquired kindly, like a true gentleman.

“They fare perfectly fine, thank you sir, My Father cares very little for balls, I grant you. But Mrs Sharpe and Felicity are amongst this hectic crowd somewhere..”

She craned her neck, seeing if she could spot either one of the two other Farrow ladies.

“… Should I be talking to you without a chaperone present?” He wondered idly. Voice turning deep and desirous.

Elizabeth turned back to him, wetting her lips before she answered.

“Seeing as my chaperone left us unattended together for several minutes, alone, in the same room, I dare say she shan’t mind..” she spoke honestly.

“Do _you_ mind, Miss Farrow?” He dared ask.

She beamed.

“I care not _one_ smidgeon for it.”

She elucidated. Referring to the manner and rules that they should not have been ignoring as a single man, and a single lady.

“That, I am _too_ glad to hear.”

He rasped, she became enchanted by the sight of his eyes under his dark black and gold mask. He loved how some of hers concealed her reddening cheeks.

It was at this point that the crowd ahead of them seemed to bubble into activity like a witches cauldron.

Many people parted, some pushing back to the fringes of the ballroom where they stood conversing. All in all, it simulated that the first dance was about to take place.

“May I have this dance, Miss Farrow?”

He asked, sweeping in front of her, and holding out his hand. Seeing that the room around them had fallen into a respectable hush. She swallowed, feeling hot and nervous. Her heart pounding a million times a minute, knowing that a few pairs of eyes were sticking to her, judging her, and she suddenly had an overwhelming sense of shyness settle in her gut. But she would not want to dismiss dancing with him for all she held dear in the world.

She smiled, looking down to his outstretched hand as she took it. Sliding her silk covered hand into his grasp. He smiled as she did, walking slowly with her out into the dance floor that was scarcely inhabited as of yet. Only three other couples twirled about inside the large gathered circle of costumes. Elizabeth could see that Sophie Richworth glared at her, from her spot, stood still with her nasty gaggle of friends in the debutante’s corner. Making a most vicious scowl at her indeed.

But Elizabeth, did not care.

Sir Thomas could see she was nervous. He had dragged her into, _undoubtedly_ , the centre of attention, in the middle of the deserted ballroom for the waltz. He could see more than a few hundred pairs of eyes were glued to them both. It didn’t bother him one bit. He was used to the attention. She. Evidently. Was not as such. But, as always. He didn't care. Especially not when he was looking at the magnificent creature in front of him.

She looked downwards as he positioned himself, one hand at her waist, the other clinging to her hand, bracing it high for their dance. Hers went to his shoulder, clasping his hand back with equal keen-ness. Yet still she looked a touch pale, unnerved by all the people that were watching and dissecting them.

“Elizabeth..”

He whispered, seeing that she peered up at him from under her golden mask, like a shy, demure little creature emerging at last from it’s shell.

She looked up to see his mystifyingly handsome face stare down at her lovingly, stretched above her looking powerful, looking like he would sell his heart to the devil to protect her.

“Pretend they are not there. Pay them no heed. All that matters now, here, is you and I.” He offered her, gently. Voice still a whisper.

She smiled lightly. Allowing him to lead as they started to dance. Looking deeply into each other eyes as they swayed about with one another to the 2/4 timed step beat. Both their bodies following the arc of the dance that he graciously swept her up in. And suddenly, Elizabeth found that she _could_ do what he had asked. She could forget that everyone was there. Because she was in _his arms_.

_That was it._

_I_ t was _that_ simple fact. Watching him lead, twirling them about the room. Encased firmly in his wonderful arms. And she could suddenly not fathom a flying fig for all the Mama’s, girls, and gentlemen that were watching them so intently.

 

She smiled, and for once, she let herself _not care_.

 

 

 

~ Minutes earlier ~

 

 

 

“Heavens? where did she slip away too, and so fast?”

Mrs Sharpe exclaimed, turning around from thanking Lady Hartwright, to subsequently find that Libby, as her back had been turned, had taken the opportunity to slink away from her and Felicity.

“She went that way, Mrs Sharpe..”

Felicity nodded her head, inclining it in a north-westerly direction. Being jostled by the heavy activity of many people as they passed them by.

 _Twice_ now her foot had been trodden on, she was only wearing thin silk slippers _, after all_. And both the women who had stepped on her had evidently _not_ been light. She needed thicker shoes, and she was starting to get very agitated with her costume. Her bonnet strings kept on coming loose, sliding out from under her chin, meaning that her bonnet kept threatening to slide off her head. _And,_ the cherry on top of the cake, was that she was bound to take someone's eyes out soon with her crook. Three gentlemen had been on the receiving end of the thing being dangerously swung about at eye level as Felicity was bumped from side to side in the packed crowds.

Araminta followed her youngest's inclined head, but she saw remarkably little as a consequence. The trouble with masquerade balls, was that they required such flamboyant head dress and attire. Mrs Sharpe caught no sight of her eldest's red tresses, or orange dress. No, all she could see across the sea of people, were the backs of some unfamiliar heads, outlandishly wide hats furnished with feathers that drifted in the hot air. Mrs Sharpe harrumphed.

“Damn and blast, the silly _gel_ , wandering off ahead of us.”

Araminta chided grumpily to no one in particular. Her hand reaching up to touch the back of her powdered white hair, ensuring it stayed in place.

Felicity rolled her eyes. _Again_. She seemed to be doing that rather a lot this evening. And mostly at her stepmother too.

“Mrs Sharpe, I don’t think she can be truly blamed. _I’m_ having enough trouble standing by your side as it is..”

Felicity pointed out, coming to her sister’s defence.

And then, almost as if to prove her point, a young couple brushed past them. Jostling Felicity into stumbling on her own two feet at the unexpected contact, making her bonnet slide forwards over her eyes once again. She scowled at the disappearing people, who were just courteous enough to sweep an apology over their shoulders.

Felicity was tempted to stick her tongue out at them. Or give their toes a damn good _bashing_ assault with her crook. But as it was they had already scampered far away to the other side of the ballroom. And there was every chance that her rude gesture of tongue poking could be seen by entirely the _wrong_ audience.

“Oh, well. I _shan’t_ exert my nerves to the hassle of wondering where she is, _a second_ longer…”

She dismissed, sniffing daintily. Holding her chin aloft in the air, pointing her nose up, and looking alarmingly, Felicity thought, like the autocratic wealthy French ruler that she was dressed as. The youngest Miss Farrow half expected a cry any minute now, of ‘Let them eat cake…’ to descend from her stepmother’s mouth.

“Good for you, Mrs Sharpe.”

Felicity smiled through a laugh, appeasing her stepmother’s frolicsome wishes. She shook her head, looking about the crowds of the ballroom ahead of her, own attention rapidly lost in the sea of costumes ahead. And, _good lord_ , was that _an octopus_ she could see? Yes it was. It was an octopus. And it was being morosely dragged around with that plump Pennington girl under it. Whom, probably had no choice but having had the costume forced upon her by some strict Mama. Felicity suddenly felt not so foolish in her ridiculous get up. Even if she _did_ have a sheep toy lolloped at her feet like some unfortunate sleeping pet, and she looked about three years of age in her silly over-frilled petticoat and bonnet.

“Oh, is _that_ Elizabeth?”

Mrs Sharpe suddenly careened, lurching forwards like an animal set to pounce. Having seen a flash of a tangerine costume nestled amongst the cumbersome crowds.

But as she reeled forwards, Felicity feared she had quite forgotten where she was, and how hefty her oversized hips were, as two unfortunate souls who stood beside them with refreshments of small pitchers of lemonade, were knocked ungraciously to the floors as a result of Mrs Sharpe’s costume.

She stepped over the crumpled people with a apologetic smile, and a small giggled mumble of _‘Oh, I am so terribly sorry, so clumsy of me, I’m usually so much more agile, you know..’_ before she crossed to stand behind her youngest.

Felicity strained on her tiptoes, peering to try and see if it was her sister.

“No. That’s Prudence Wyndam. She came as a Carrot.”

Felicity added with a dry humoured smile. The girls sunset coloured costume was of a similar hue to Elizabeth’s. The Wyndam girl in question waddled about the dance floor, restricted by the close binding of her orange clad legs to form the reverse steepled shape of the vegetable, and she even had a green hat with prominent tassels on her head to complete the ‘carrot – top 'ensemble.

“Good Grief..”

Mrs Sharpe exclaimed in extreme perplexity, rolling her eyes, second to Lady Bashford dressing her two twin daughter’s as a pantomime horse – which had trod on her toes earlier, and sent one ill-fated gentleman sailing headfirst into the middle of the lemonade punch bowl table - Lady Wyndam deciding that a ‘Carrot’ was adequate costume for her daughter, came close to stealing the biscuit of whom was the _worst_ willed London Mama in attendance here tonight.

It was then that the band played the first few opening notes up from the balcony to signal that the waltz was about to take place.

The crowd peeled back over the room. It was famously known that the waltz, the first dance, was one of the more romantic ones to which a girl should be paired to a very amiable suitor, for the first dance set the tone for the rest of a debutantes evening. No gentleman who knew what he was about, stepped out to waltz with a young lady if he didn’t intend to marry her.

As a consequence of this, the wallflower girls took up their positions on the outskirts of the ballroom, the popular and nastier girls crowded about to mock those who would not dance. And a few interested Mama’s and even more silly gentleman formed the circle of people who were ringed about those who expressed their desire to dance with a partner openly for the first. 

Felicity endeavoured her body onto tip toes again, to see that the recently wedded Duke and Duchess of Whitmore took to the floor, looking as in love, and love sick as if they were ever the only two fools with hearts for one another. The outlandishly dark haired, but boring but gentle Sir Gideon Chittenden stood up with one Miss Flora Evangeline Gooding. A slight girl, a little shy and colourless, perhaps, but whom had rather a lovely voice. They had declared to be quite in love, and courting for several months now. And Felicity’s mouth just about hung to the ballroom floor when she saw _who_ the third couple was…

“Mama!”

Felicity exclaimed in the harshest of unquiet and hissing whispers.

Mrs Sharpe turned to look immediately, because when Felicity extended the title, that Araminta could never bare out of respect for Verina Farrow, then she knew nothing than to go directly to her youngest’s outburst.

“What _is it,_ my dove?”

Araminta asked, whispering back in a susurrate tone over the music, looking down seeing if there were any trodden toes or broken bones to her to contend with. She sounded most shocked...

 _“Elizabeth’s dancing. With the Duke of Chatsworth..”_ Felicity gaped.

Mrs Sharpe moved with remarkable speed for a woman of her age, size, and thoroughly inconvenient hips. Coming behind Felicity to see that indeed, she was telling no tall tale. For there, right in front of their eyes, not ten metres away, stood the tall and dashing Sir Thomas Kenworthy, in all his princely attire, leading the beautiful sight of her eldest flame haired daughter out onto the dance floor, whispering something soft to her as he guided them into position to dance.

Mrs Sharpe watched in thorough enrapturement as she could see Libby’s blue eyes glaze with love for the man who stood in front of her, and her smile was so wide and loving that a blind man would have felt it’s warmth, and know the meaning behind it was undoubtedly as such. Because as they twirled and danced in one another arms, Araminta could see that the Duke looked the same. Which led everyone in the ballroom to the same thought…

 

They were in love.

 

Elizabeth Farrow, and Sir Thomas Kenworthy were wholeheartedly, absolutely, unquestionably _in love._

 

Quite a sight to behold, they were, too. The handsomest couple in the room, if Mrs Sharpe could have her final say on the matter.

They looked lovesick, and happy. Like they should never be parted from one another’s arms.

However, their enraptured state did not go unnoticed by everyone....

Lady Hartwright’s house was large one, built with alcoves and stunning high ceilings. And looking down, next to the musician’s balcony, was a viewing gallery where a few people were mingling, chatting and watching those who danced far down below them.

Amongst this crowd, was one Sir Marcus Burke. Whom, having seen the couple take the floor looking sickeningly _happy_ with their position in one another’s hold, caused him to imbibe another sharp mouthful of whiskey straight from the flask he had brought with him. Damn society gatherings only had _piddly_ lemonade. And as he took a swig, he glared down at the both of them, the start of a sickening smile starting to cross his lips as he felt drunken-ness overtake him. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth, disturbing his mask.

“Enjoy it while _you can_ , Miss Farrow…”

He hissed nastily to no one else but himself. Raising his flask in a silent toast to god or the devil before he took another long swig, chuckling.

 

 

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

“You are a divine dancer Elizabeth..”

Sir Thomas granted her, as they swirled about on the floor one last time, hearing as the last few notes faded into silence. And people gathered about them offered a round of applause to the enamoured couples, now, as the gavotte started, more people fussed to try and invade the dance floor now.

She curtseyed, smiling, and he bowed. Mirroring her grin.

When they stood once more, he took her arm.

“May I accompany you in the hopes of getting some air? Miss?”

He asked, eyes burning with something playful lingering beneath his mask, and simmering away in his smile.

“That would be most kind. It is _quite_ overcrowded in here..”

She offered, back. The both of them fighting to worm their way throughout the packed crowds. The heat so evident, it was all you could do to ignore it. Elizabeth felt flushed and parched.

However, their path was suddenly halted by a most unwelcome figure.

Three of them to be exact...

Libby fought the all body revulsion that shuddered through her at the sight of her most favourite horrible tormenter stood in front of her. With both her just as horrible friends by her side.

Sophie Richworth.

Sir Thomas came to a halt behind Libby, watching as she sighed, and her face under the golden mask took on one of extreme dislike and irascibility. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just hazarded a very correct guess, judging by her body language, and the unpleasant glint in the girls green eyes in front of them, that they were not friends. That they were probably the vile girls whom she suffered mocking at the hands of, when she had been a wallflower.

That thought made him _seething_ mad.

Not that he showed anything behind standing tall behind her, stance impassive, and not awarding them anything but a stony glare.

Sophie Richworth wasn’t an unpleasant looking girl. That’s what made it worse.

Elizabeth often supposed if she had fat cheeks, boils, and facial warts – with hair - then maybe she could pity the girl who was so nasty to her. But as it was, she was severely pretty in a harsh kind of way. No hint of hairy warts or boils at all. She was boil free. _Unfortunately_. 

She had green eyes that looked like two stagnant pools of water, her hair was thick and dark. Like a jet black curtain of silk. It was pulled into an elegant chignon on her head, yet her beauty is a little too severe, Libby thought, she looked sharp and pointed. Especially with the way her eyes were set in a slightly slanted way, and every facial feature was upturned and petite. She was slender too, with no hips, and barely a bust to speak of, and had quite no concern for moral decency, judging by the way she wore a very low cut gown, and was subsequently trying to angle herself for the Duke to get a better look at her. She sneered however, right at Elizabeth.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She greeted blandly. As if this was going to be a pleasant encounter. She looked about as pleasant as a rattlesnake with a brand new button on its tail.

“Miss Richworth.”

Libby spoke back, equally as insipid. Thomas found her voice was nasally and rather grating upon ones auditory senses. Much alike her hideous character... he wagered. 

“I understand your male friend is the Duke of Chatsworth. I can’t see for heavens why he danced with you, He’s far too handsome to keep _your_ company _.._ ”

Sophie grinned, nastily, the two girls flanking her sides, to her left Miss Winnifred Darknoll, and to her right, one Miss Cynthia Sterling. Both brunette, and as ghastly attired as their pack leader. All of whom now giggled spitefully at her sneering.

“No engagement ring on your finger I see, still wearing down Mr Carlton are we?”

Elizabeth asked patronisingly.

Thomas delighted that this made the toxic Miss Richworth's smile, fade Rather quickly. 

“Oh well. I’m sure a few more instances of stalking, and following him around London will soon grant you title as his wife. Don’t you worry. I have it on good authority that men _love_ a stupid wife.”

She offered, a small smile on her lips. Killing her enemy with point-blank kindness. Her eyes tipped back under her mask to meet his. Causing him to recall their conversing the first night they met at her jape to Sophie.

_Oh, help him, he loved this woman like mad._

He couldn’t fight the smile that crossed his lips. And Sophie saw this. She then had the audacity to sweep Elizabeth aside very obviously, pushing her so she stumbled, and then she came up right up close to him. He stared immovably down at the repugnant girl who drew closer, _far closer_ than was deemed appropriate.

“How tall are you? You must be atleast over six foot…”

She flirted, trying to look up at him prettily in a charming manner. Her voice attempting seduction. 

It rather made his stomach coil in _revulsion_ , instead.

“Six foot four.” He bit off.

She smiled, wider. He hated the sight of it. She had an ugly manner, an ugly voice, and an even uglier soul. He didn’t like her _one bit._

“That’s a most lovely height…”

She smiled, biting down her lip.

“You really think so?” He asked huskily.

“I do…”

She sneered back.

His eyes flickered to the side to find Libby looking confused, and a little hurt. _And that would not do…_

“If I may…”

He said aloud. Sophie’s blood boiled as he then reached off to the side and tugged, twirling Elizabeth into his arms. Angling her right up close to his chest, causing her to gasp as he wrapped a hand about her lower back and tucked her into his chest. Not sparing an inch of space between their bodies.

Her hands sprawled out to go to his torso, she hadn’t expected him to do such a _wicked_ thing. But, she was _very glad_ he had done… They were nearly pressed nose to nose now… Goodness, he was an intoxicating creature from up close. And he had only touched or handled her like this in _her dreams._ She rather felt as if her heart was singing the aria from _The Magic Flute_ , somersaulting wildly as it tripped past a high C.

“What do you think, Elizabeth, is six foot four still, a most lovely height, now?”

He asked, mocking Sophie in a way gentleman _just didn’t do_.

Reaching over, and tucking a stray curl of hair back from Libby’s cheek, seeing her cheeks flush and he mouth gape in a most stunning manner. His eyes were burning at her with the aura of _‘play-along-with-this’_

“Oh, well. I suppose it does for dances..” She sighed with a beam.

“And _shelves_. I am most adept at getting things down of high shelves when the occasion calls for it…” He smiled down to her.

“How very advantageous, I often find myself stuck in respects to that dilemma.”

She smiled back, sliding a hand up to his shoulder. The crowds were so dense, no one was at risk of seeing their sordid position.

Sophie Richworth looked ready to murder them. Both. In cold blood.

“Almost as if were made for each other, wouldn’t you say?” He asked. Grinning across to Sophie before his eyes found Elizabeth once more. 

“I would dare declare such a truth, yes.” Libby beamed.

“What do you think of it, Miss Richworth? Anything malicious to wish upon such a happy couple?”

She went to speak, before more words from him cut her off. Grinding her to a halt. He was a Duke, his rank meant that his words took precedence over hers.

“… Or have we finally succeeded in making you keep your poisonous opinions to yourself? Dare I risk sounding like a mother hen, here, but unless you have something to say, perhaps it is then best to not open that _vulgar_ mouth of yours, and say nothing at all. Do me a favour, and in all future regard to this, lovely goddess of a woman, it would do you well to exercise the metaphor, silent as the grave.” He suggested. No. He _told_ her. 

Sophie’s teeth ground together, before she flounced off into the crowds. Friends following in her wake, as they all sulkily stomped away.

Elizabeth and Thomas smiled to one another, before their cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The both of them remembering where they were. He held her hand as she straightened herself, smoothing a gloved hand down her skirts and righting herself.

“That was a terribly nice thing you just did…” She assured him.

“Well. What can I offer in my defence? I am a terribly nice man. And you, a terribly lovely lady.”

He adored watching her flush, Because she did that right then, due to his words. They worked their way once again through the crowds, coming to the large terrace off the side of the ballroom, a large door was open, allowing the dark cool night to spill in. The anticipation of cooling down, and being alone with the man, was making Elizabeth tingle in a way she knew she ought not.

“..Besides. You might rescind your statement of my terrible loveliness, it may turn to one of horrified shock at my scandalous nature, when I express my most ardent wish to get you alone in those garden’s…”

He explained in a hot whisper.

She bit her lip, smiling shyly, head dipping low as she walked, thankful at last to come through the door, him sliding out not long after her. Most of the peoples attention taken by the gavotte going on in the room. No one noticed the two slip silently away into the night.

She sighed in audible pleasure as the cool breeze of the dark London evening washed over her. Kissing it’s cool way up the back of her neck, fluttering across her arms and shoulders. It tugged on her dress, whipping it about her ankles as she closed her eyes, thankful to be away from the heat of the ballroom.

Sir Thomas watched her, he also unable to deny how lovely it was to escape the clutches of that humid room. And also to get away from the many pairs of eyes that would be dissecting and measuring their conduct all evening.

And because she looked so enchanting cloaked in moonlight.

It shone bright over the skyline of London, ahead of them. Bouncing off Lady’s Hartwright’s well manicured gardens. It slithering clutches came off every privet hedge, every bush or tree. Sparkled off every bright flower, shimmied in droplets up from every blade of grass. And illuminated the large marble fountain which trickled water, the only thing they could hear as they drew father and father away from the music coming from the grand house. Deeper and further into the midnight blue, cool beauty of the dark deserted garden.

The moon also, seemed to make her beauty twice as great. Her skin would make statues of Greek Goddess’s howl in envy. It looked peachy soft, and supple. And the way the light refracted in the coils of her lovely red hair, why, it made him want to summon the nearest poet to take a stab at writing down how wonderful she looked in their own artistic language, so he could purr the words to her like vows, softly for all of eternity. And if he fell in love with her skin, then he was ready to elope with her eyes, they shone in prettiness like two priceless sapphires encased in some museum somewhere. She turned back from looking out across the garden’s, to see he was smiling softly at her.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in all of the world.”

He smiled, crossing slowly to her, standing very close – which meant he had to look down – and he took the side of her smooth face into his warm hand as he did.

“Is that not a touch melodramatic? I’m sure there are far more stunning women out there in the world aside from me..” She smiled, unable to be as biased as he was. He adored that about her.

“It may be, But I don’t care _one bit._ You see, I wouldn’t take notice if even a hundred of the worlds most beautiful women _threw_ themselves at my feet. I don’t want to _marry any_ of _them._ ”

He smiled, holding her close, in his arms. She felt _so right_ , too. She felt like she belonged there.

“You want to marry me?”

She smiled. He is fairly certain she is asking him, but it partially sounds like she was testing the sentence out aloud, rather than to the inside of her own head.

“Very badly…” He grinned.

Because he did. His body and soul pined for her own. He was able to ignore the clamouring's of his soul as far as possible. But his body was both harder to resist, and to hide from. After his sordid mind conjured up the image of them in his bed together, the night after he had met her, almost three times he had occasion to call Perkin’s for a _cold_ bath to _dampen_ his _raging_ spirits. His body was starting to become restless for her, and he tried in vain not to let this show too much before they were wed. But, oh. How Miss Elizabeth would feel the full raging force of it, once they were. He’d never, in all his life, forget the last time he had asked, just three days ago, and Perkin’s had raised one regal brow, face otherwise impassive and asked

“A _bracing_ dip, is it sir?”

As Perkins had served Benedict for over 20 years. His station and duration meant he could say such things safely at his rank. To which Thomas had then ground his teeth and necked more whiskey from his glass. And - damn the bloody lout - Benedict had snorted into a long bout of hooting, guffawing laughter at him, because of it

“I suppose I can’t deny I’ve indulged in that fantasy myself, ever since having met you at Dinner that night…” She confessed, looking up at him like he was the single most glorious thing in the world. And that was because, to her, he was.

“ _Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, Duchess of Chatsworth…_ It does have a pretty ring to it, does it not?” He asked, grinning at her like a fox.

She smiled. It did sound wonderful… One day she hoped that bearing his surname wouldn’t feel like it did tonight. Like she was just slipping into it once, like she was putting on a costume. She looked forwards to a time when she could wear it, day in, and day out. Proudly as his wife.

“It sounds perfect.” She grinned.

He couldn’t savour her smile, unfortunately, because he then slid himself forwards, crushing her to his chest as he kissed her with such savagery it made her lungs burst, and her heart feel like it had taken up residence three continents away.

And then _he moaned_. He couldn’t help it. She was such a wildly sensual, supple and pliant creature. And he was capable of such lust, it unnerved him. It had been bottled up and building inside of him from the moment they had exchanged names nine days ago. Granted, it didn’t sound like such a proficient enough stretch of time to gather such carnal desires, yet _, it was._

He wanted her, with him, in whatever bed and locked room was nearest. He wanted to be underneath her, beside her, on top of her. all over her. He wanted her skin, and cause her breath taking smile to morph into a gasping cry of his name as he took her apart. Drowning them both in such pleasure, they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, ensuring both their needs were sated before he expended all of his lust on her still quivering form, until she begged him to take her.

She gasped, his lips grew hungrier, and his need swelled to an unsafe degree for her. Her lower back was pressed sharply into the concrete banister behind them, that topped the stairs leading down to the gardens below. Her arms came up to rest on his shoulders, as his lips stopped twisting in sinful ways against her own, and instead pecked along her neck with soft smacks of his mouth hitting her skin over and over. Smelling deep the scent of her, getting the taste of her sweet lavender skin on his tongue.

“You know, we’d have to share a bed, every night, if we were man and wife..” He moaned lowly into her ear, she could feel the side of his mask clip her skin as he spoke softly, his voice sounded like a honeyed rasp of a dream. She curved so her back arched, and all of her curves pressed lengthways into him, her stiffened as he felt her breasts push into him, aswell as the fleshy globes of her thighs. It made him growl onto her neck. And It made him _so very_ hard.

“.. _Oh, my. Elizabeth_. You have no idea what I’d do to you in that bed. In our marital bed. I’d take all night showing you how ardently I appreciate your wonderful body. I’d squeeze you, kiss you, hold you and make love to you for hours on end. I’d give every ounce of pleasure _anyway_ I could…”

He growled, his tongue doing something naughty to his words to make them sound like bliss, and his lips doing something equally as bad to the spot below her ear that made her startle into a gasp of desire.

“You’d want for nothing, If I took you as my wife. I’d make love to you all night, and be there when you woke in the morning. I want to make you mine. Make you laugh, make you smile, but most importantly I would always try to make you happy. I want every inch of you, in every way a man can want a woman. You’re my necessity, my darling. I _need_ you.”

He gushed against her ear, his hands growing all the more restless as they slid down, cupping and squeezing her perfectly delightful ass under his hands. Pushing her body up into him as he grabbed at her. His need growing more and more exigent by the moment…

“Thomas…”

She moaned, finally understanding that the heat unfurling low in her body was all of her desire for this man, she wanted him right back, which was something she should have _never_ wanted. But she couldn’t help it.

He growled at her desirous voice gasping his name at his attentions.

The both of them entwined passionately together, swivelled round like two startled animals being preyed on as they heard more voices drift out from beyond the wide open French doors. Drifting out to them as they kissed ardently on the terrace. Elizabeth’s eyes shot wide, both their reputes would be tarnished forever should they be found in a state of slight ruination in a darkened garden. The voices became louder, which meant the figures were seconds away from being out of doors and spotting them both.

“Quickly. Come this way.”

Thomas grinned, whispering, his smile the most perfectly wicked gleaming spectacle she’d ever had to good grace to witness. His eyes looking like he was plotting something in the deep ice chip depths. He pulled her eagerly along with him. His hand slung about the back of her waist as he tugged her small frame sharply down the steps alongside him. She couldn’t put aside the fact that his hand resting on her lower back, felt _quite lovely_.

“Thomas?”

She laughed, asking him where he was rushing them both too. Clattering down the steps after him. He turned when they reached the bottom, his boots and her dainty slippers crunching as they sprinted across the gravelled paths. Coming to rest in the small alcove under the stairs, pausing by the marble bench that was safely tucked into the little nook that was hidden away, right out of plain sight. Illuminated by the moon’s light alone...

“Surely someone will notice our absence? The crowds are not that thick, you know. And Mrs Sharpe will be circling for me like a hawk and, mnfnm- “

She was silenced as he slunk close to her again, he pressed her back to the concrete curve of the niche, her back hit the cool brick, jumping at the cool temperature on her bare shoulders, but moaning as his muscled thigh parted her legs, bracing her to him like a vice. Crushing her shorter frame to his tall one, forcing her to arch into him. The silk of her dress was thin and flimsily soft underneath his fingers, so thin, he was able to marvel at every elegant line of her body that curved and dipped under his hands. His kiss was one of a starving lover, not a gentle suitor. But dare she say she almost preferred it that way. She didn’t even feel the cold, she just felt _loved._

That was when she felt his fingers reach for something that made that last thought contradict itself, his mind was slowly letting his control be wrestled away from him. And every touch, and the slightest move from her only sought to hurl him further into the clutches of inescapable all consuming desire. But there was still one thing that stuck in his mind, something he had mentioned to her when they had happened upon each other in the park the other day, and he wanted to indulge himself, and seeing as they had privacy now…

His hands found her shoulders, sliding down the bare cool brush of her upper arms, eventually, after what felt like a million years as he softly kissed her lips with maddening, mind stealing skill, whilst his fingers found the lip of her golden glove. And slowly, gently, for all the starving lust he had unleashed upon her tonight, slowly guided the glove down off her left arm, the rush of silk sliding off her is like an endless kiss to her skin, causing gooseflesh to ripple across her arms.

What he did next, made her heart ache…

His fingers pulled the glove down and off her arm, dropping it to the bench by her side, then he repeated the action with her other arm. Abandoning the glove the same way he had the other one. And then he just _held her hand,_ twining it in his own fingers.

That move stole all her breath and thought, _without contestation._

She looked up at him, and she was suddenly nothing but that soft cherry red smile, with cute dimples at the corner of her delectable mouth. And her eyes are nothing but wide doleful cute little things that could command him to do whatever she wished.

His eyes bore deeply into her own, Even under the mask, she could still not get over how _bright_ they managed to be.

Maybe he had showed her not to be so scared of desire, or maybe it was finally that her courage managed to catch up to her. But her hands reached back, tugging through the short thorns of his silk like black hair that he shuddered out a shaky breath as her fingers slid through it. He closed his eyes, fighting the moan that rolled up, deep from the back of his throat. He felt her petite hands go to the tied tight bow of his mask, and slowly slide the two ribbons apart, holding the mask as she lifted it down and off his face.

He opened his eyes as he felt the thing come away from his face as she lifted it off him. Seeing once again that stunningly perfect face of his come into view, the full angled plane of his smooth carved jaw, the handsomely set bridge of his nose, and the full view of his gorgeously shaped ice chip coloured eyes were left unhindered by the shadowed brim of his dark mask once more. She let it lower to her side, her arm falling back down with the mask in her grip.

He cupped his hand to the back of her neck, leaning in with such agonizing slowness to press his mouth to hers again, taking his time in kissing her now. Needing more of how her responsive body curled and keened into him, he thoroughly took advantage of this soft little action, and darting his tongue firmly into her mouth, stroking and smoothing about in a way that left them both panting. Suddenly, Thomas felt that it wasn’t enough. He really needed her now. He either needed confirmation that she was his, or he needed to posess the freedom to press her into the wall, lift up her skirts and claim her, make her scream his name to the heavens above.

“I need you. I need you so much, Elizabeth. When can I have you, I can’t hold back for much longer..” He lusted.

She smiled, her mouth gaping open as he skimmed his lips up across her cheek, to her neck once more. His hot breath making her knees weak as it rushed across her skin, tinting it a hot pink.

“Oh, Thomas..” She gasped. “When will you learn that you already have me...”

She asked, watching as he twirled a perfectly curled lock of red hair about his finger, she lost sense as his hot fingers brushed the delicate skin of her neck oh-so lightly.

He tugged her close after hearing her say that, sealing their lips together once more, growling ferally into her mouth. When they broke again after a few long moments, they found they were all tangled and twisted together once more. Her arms wrapped tight about his neck, and his clasping her close by the waist, the other wrapping as far as it could around her.

“I know I’m not supposed to allow any thoughts to cross my head, especially when we’re kissing. As I am to take it, I understand that such raw passion is supposed to leave me thoughtless…”

She explained. Going giddy at the way he kissed down her neck, coming to her gown, and making her bite her lip as he slid the shoulder of it slightly down to her upper arm, placing a kiss to her shoulder causing her to tingle and melt a little bit at the knees. He was doing that thing he was so skilled at, which consisted of making her brain mushy again.

“It is..”

He murmured onto her skin. Before his mouth lowered to nip gently at her collarbone, he strained down to place a kiss to her thrumming pulse point, feeling that her skin was still so hot.

“Whilst that may be, and whilst you are continuing to weaken my knees, I cannot help but be wary of the fact that Mrs Sharpe will definitely notice mine and your absence now. She is, _sometimes_ , you know, a clever woman. She’ll have put two and two together…” She explained, her hand going up to latch into the back of his soft inky hued hair.

He stopped, sighing against her neck.

“I suppose that is plausible.” He uttered, his voice a rasping kiss strained husk now.

“Maybe you should slip back..and I should try and locate a.. _uh,_ ladies powdering room.”

She insinuated, her fingers going to try and tame her mane like hair now, he chuckled, his hands had _undoubtedly mussed_ it to an _obvious ruffled_ indelicate state, that any respectful mama or debutante worth their mettle could _instantly_ pick up as a lustful misadventure into the shadowy gardens to accompany a rake of a gentleman into unsavoury things – and unchaperoned at that too….

He touched his fingers now to the stray swirls of messy curls.

“I rather like it. That and the flushed cheeks makes you look like _my wild_ temptress…” He lusted, kissing her cheek, tilting her chin in his hand as he did. Holding her face up to him.

She smiled.

“Go, quick. Before people start to gossip about our reputations. Mine can be more easily tarnished than yours..”

She explained, half heartedly trying to push his chest away from her own as he leered down at her, re-securing his mask on his face.

“How so?” He frowned.

“You are the Right Honourable Gentleman, His Lordship, Duke of Chatsworth.”

“I am a gentleman, and you, Elizabeth, are a gentleman’s daughter. Make no mistake about it. We are of the same equals in rank and station, and I will fight to the death with my dying breath, anyone who dares declare otherwise, or insinuates that we are not suited as so.”

He pressed firmly, an edge of authority in his eyes that she adored grouped with those words. Still though, with a touch of a smile to his lips.

She smiled, her knees as soft as melted butter at what he proclaimed.

“I am just ‘That red headed’ Professor’s Daughter, or ‘That Stubborn but Shy Farrow Girl’.” She insisted. Repeating the phrases that she’d heard parroted about by many Mama’s from all the gossip papers in London.

“Wrong.”

He bit out. Wolfish grin on his lips, dominance in his blue eyes.

She frowned.

“You are henceforth about to bare the title as the future Duchess of Chatsworth.”

He reminded her, sneaking forwards to place one single kiss to her lips, long enough to make sure she arched into him. Then, when he pulled away, with a wink and a smile that could fell Queen Victoria herself, he vanished off into the cool night air. She could hear nothing but his boots on the gravel until he disappeared completely out of sight. Leaving her flustered and thrilled, and oh-so very in Love.

 

 

~

 

She had managed to sneak in unnoticed through an unlocked side door, which luckily, led right down a darkened corridor straight to a Ladies Powdering room. Thankfully, she was able to re-tame her ‘wild’ thick red coiled hair into something resembling civility and order. Pleased to see also that her cheeks had calmed down from their previous flushed state. Pleased that she looked the same as she did before, she exited the room, clicking the door shut, and sneaking silently back down the darkened hall, able to hear the music thrum from beyond its encasing in the ballroom ahead of her.

She could only hope she didn’t stumble upon a couple of trysting young lovers.. what an embarrassment _that_ would be. But then she smiled widely, as not ten moment’s previous, _she_ had been part of a trysting young couple. That thought warmed her from the inside out, and just thoughts of Thomas, she noted, kept her warm better than any jacket _ever_ could.

She had just clattered lightly down a couple of steps, seeing another corridor branch out ahead of her. The music grew louder now. That was the polka If she wasn’t mistaken. But her thoughts were swiped from her brain in a startling rush as she had just gripped her hand to the doorknob, about to push the door open, when the brutal force of a hard muscled body that told her it was definitely a man, collided into her back, throwing her away from the door, and tugging her to one side. Slamming her back viciously into the wall next to the door. His grip on her shoulders hurting her, grasping her so tight she swore she’d have dark bruises by the morrow.

She nearly screamed, the man who accosted her was outfitted in a costume of pure red. With a skull mask swathing any discernable distinguishing facial features in regards to his identity, to her.

She felt like screaming, in fact the small yelp that bubbled up and out of her throat at the sudden assault makes her sure she just almost did.

Then, suddenly, she swallows. Remembering she had seen that green ring about his irises, daring her to draw deeper into his maliciously dark eyes before.

And he was dressed as the Red Death, _oh, how appropriate;_

Marcus Burke.

“Scream, and I’ll _strangle_ you, Elizabeth..”

He snarled. His large hand beginning to close around her throat. Feeling her pulse thrum hot and panicked under his palm, her breath heaving and pulling at her chest. Which he eyes up hungrily. She truly did have remarkable breasts. He licked his lips looking at her. His mask only covered the upper half of his face, after all.

She winced, trying to squirm out from his vice grip.

“Marcus, _what_ are you _doing_?”

She gasped, one tear bursting to slide down her cheek. She had never known such uneasy terror like this.

“I’m showing you what happens when you _forget_ who is the one courting you…”

He growled, squeezing her throat tighter. She whimpered, clawing at his strong hands. He leered close to her then, she fought not to shudder in repugnance at the strong fumes of drink that his breath carried. _He was drunk._ To no surprise of hers.

“Please, you’re hurting me…” She cried, sobbing as those dark eyes glinted in violent pleasure at seeing her like this.

“And you’re inconveniencing me…” He snapped back.

“Swanning around London like a gracious _whore,_ flirting with that _Duke_.” He spat. There was no other way to phrase how he had snapped the words to her, spitting out each one in snarls as if they were bad tastes In his mouth.

“What was I supposed to do? Ignore him?” She asked.

She closed her eyes, whimpering in pain again as his hand clamped so tight, she knows there will be red grip marks when he lets her go.

“Yes.”

He hisses into her ear, spittle from his snarling landing on her neck as he spoke. Again, came another scared tear from the corner of her eye.

“You could have adhered to your promise to marry _me,_ instead.”

“You _haven’t_ asked me to marry you. You’ve been too busy leaping into _bed_ with Mabel Loxley as I understand it…”

She snarled, her bravado swelling up inside of her as she sneered at him now. He grimaced at how the silly tramp looked pleased with herself, _he’d have to punish her for that.._

He reached up to tug of his own mask, throwing it away from his face, so she could see he was glowering down at her with venom in his eyes. He chucked it away to the floor behind him with his spare hand, still gripping her throat tight.

That was before he chuckled, letting go of her throat, tugging her close to his body as he braced his over hers, making her press her chest into him, aswell as the fronts of both her squeezable fat thighs. One hand went to grasp at her bottom, the other steadied himself by bracing it flat to the wall behind her head. His body felt hot, and wrong, jutting into her own in a horrible way that she hated. She twisted her head to the side as he snarled into her ear, his lips contorting, brushing against her skin as he spoke.

“Jealous?” He leered.

“Because the man I hate is bedding the silliest most toxic chit in all of London. No, I’m not envious. Not even one bit.” She fought back, no hint of where her bravery was bursting from inside of her. She was trembling.

He chuckled again, a deep scoffing sound.

“Mabel’s an easy woman to bed, unlike you. She doesn’t have to stand on principle and station.”

“It sounds to me like she’s suffering the advantage’s of a woman who has _none_ of _either_.” She bit out.

“Oh, I do so love your quick wit…” He smiled.

“But I think I love your body more. Oh, you're making me _so hard_ , you stubborn _little bitch_. So untouchable aren't you. I forgot _how pristine_ you virgins can be..” He rasped, closing his hand around one ass cheek.

_“God, I can barely fit it in my hand…”_

Another tear at that….

He lusted in amazement, leaning forwards to kiss up her neck. Each touch made her shrink away from him in horror. Black bursts of sickening dirtiness dancing through her bloodstream. He did the same to her breasts, groping them so tight, exclaiming how he could barely get his hand around it.

“Does it _hurt you_ to know that after I take you, here, tonight, in this hallway, that you’ll have _no chance_ of wedding that bloody Duke. We can invite him to the ceremony of course, let him sit there and watch as I make you Mrs Burke, and watch him squirm as he imagines us in bed together on our _wedding night_.”

“What makes you _think I’ll ever_ marry you?”

She snarls back, crying, fighting to wriggle out of his grip now. His words making more tears dribble from her eyes. She was so scared, yet she had never been _so breathtakingly angry_ in all her life.

“It’s what your father wants. Its what I want, and I’ll _force you_ to _want_ it too. You don’t want to upset _Daddy_ and Araminta, Now _do you_ Elizabeth?”

He mocked, starting to laugh a sickeningly dark chuckle at her.

She pushed her hands to his chest, moaning as she tried to throw him away from her. He didn’t budge an inch as she tried to shove him.

“ _Oh?_ Are you _trying to fight me? Do_ you want to _get away, Elizabeth, Is that it?_ ”

He snarled, still chuckling his words, getting up close into her face, trying to mock her, there came more frustrated tears down her cheeks.

Suddenly, she doesn’t quite know how she does it, all she knows is, that she summoned some form of discernable strength from somewhere deep in her bones. Perhaps it was the way she hated how he talked to her, how he drank, how he treated her like a trophy to be won into marriage, or possibly how she hated his guts, his eyes, his hair, and everything about him. Everything from the last tip of his hair, to his toes, hell, even his own bloody dog, if he had one. Well. She hated that too. She hated Marcus Burke with every bone in her body. And, speaking of such, there wasn’t any evidence of him having a single good one in him.

She manages to shove both her hands into his torso, succeeding to launch his entire muscled frame backwards, his grip on her loosened for a moment as he stooped to _laugh_ at her displeasure and pain. He stumbled, his ace shocked as he looked at the small, very angry creature, that was stood snarling in front of him. She looked remarkably like the calm placid girl who used to be Miss Elizabeth, demure-and-shy-and-the-living-emodiment-of-polite-charity-and-harmlessness, Farrow.

But her tolerance and her usually good temper had _snapped._ Having been provoked into violence by this man. She prayed a swift vehement to the sweet natured girl whom he had clasped to the wall and assaulted three moments previous. She was _wild_ now, and fuming. And she looked it, her eyes set in such anger, if looks could kill, he would surely be dead. And some strands of her hair had drifted down to float angelically about her face, her lips pulled into a snarl. Though she looked as furious as the _devil_ in that moment.

There was no one to save her, and for once in her damned life. She was going to stop wishing for the handsome prince to come along and make the day. _Goddammit_ she was going to _save herself_ this time… come hell or high water… Her life was at stake, and for once she would not be that unfortunate red haired wallflower…

“ _I will NEVER marry you.”_

She seethed quietly in a thin reed like voice that could have killed someone it was so lethal.

“I can _never_ marry you. How could I marry a man I so obviously loathe? Your character, Marcus Burke, is no better than poison. I had the damned effrontery to think you polite at one time. But that time has gone. Nothing on earth and in all of the heavens combined could ever tempt me to wed you. I thought you a decent man at one time, but I can clearly see now it was all an act to secure my affections. But I will stand for being talked down to, and handed about like a toy no longer. I am in love with Thomas Kenworthy, and whether you like it or not, I will be his wife. And you shall _never_ have the opportunity to ruin me. I shall not let you. Not for _one_ second. And do you honestly think my father or my stepmother will let me marry someone who they both extremely dislike, and whom they both can clearly see I _abhor?_ They _detest_ you as much as I do. With all the drinking and the rude manners, and bedding women from the Gaiety, I half wonder why they didn’t dismiss you from me earlier. From tonight onwards, I shall _not_ receive you, I shall not wish to speak to you. And Unless you never speak to or come near me again, then I shall report you to the police for harassment. Do you understand? You have lost me Mr Burke. So you and your _stupid_ oaf of a father can take your manners and attentions for finding a sensible easily ignorable wife elsewhere. I _never_ wish to see _you contaminate_ my path, ever again!”

She shouted. Uncaring that she was raising her voice, and shouting her words so that her words scraped through her throat painfully as she yelled. Her voice hoarse and she yelled through the tears. She didn’t care if anyone heard her. In fact, she hoped they did. And her fists were clenched so tight, her whole upper body shook with fury.

“So that’s the way it’s going to be? Is it Elizabeth?” He asked with a voice like murder.

She offered him no answer but a glare.

“Fine.” He snarled.

“This isn’t the last you’ll see of me. Tell your precious Duke to watch his back..” He promised as stood looking at her, panting in anger for a second, before he snarled at her impassiveness, turning on his heel and disappearing off down the corridor.

She slipped back inside the ballroom almost instantly after he had gone, her knees wobbled and she felt parched and very weak.

She shut the door after her, shakily with sweating hands under her gloves. And tried to keep her back straight, and look elegant and unaffected as she scanned the room for Felicity and Mrs Sharpe. All she could see was the blur of people dancing, and laughing around her. She actually felt quite ill now… having done something so out of character for her.

She swallowed, feeling that her throat was a sticky dry channel. Bile rising in her throat. She placed a hand to her forehead, suddenly feeling rather woozy and lightheaded.

Her chst was pounding and she suddenly felt herself gasping for breath. When she opened her eyes and looked to the dancing crowds in front of her. She could see nothing but dizzying drags in her vision.

She tried to calm herself, placing a hand across her mouth, and it was at this point that she saw a solid wall of a man’s chest come into her vision, aswell as a silky voice.

She looked up, through her compromised vision, to see that Benedict Carlton had spotted her, and broken away from the crowds to wish her a good evening. He too, was dressed in a princely manner like Thomas had been, except his coat was a blue, and his mask a deep golden colour. He lifted it from his face as he greeted her, standing with a hand behind his back. Leering handsomely at her with a polite bow.

“Miss Farrow. It is such a delight..” He smiled, his grin and seductive eyes, were one’s that could have even the most stern Mama weak kneed on the spot in an instant.

Elizabeth swallowed, blinking rapidly as she exhaled a breath and a shaky smile.

She watched as he tilted his head, smile fading.

“Goodness, Miss Farrow, you look _most pale?_ Can I fetch you something, A _refreshment_ perhaps..”

He asked, hint of playful charm in his voice gone, he was now leaning close to see her eyes were blinking quite a lot. And he chest was raggedly pounding through her laboured breaths. She really did look as white as a sheet.

“Forgive me… I..”

She gusted out on a breath, clamping her mouth shut as she wasn’t so unsure that when she opened it again, she’d vomit at his feet.

“I’m..” She warned, but barely were the words out of her mouth as she crumpled to the floors below.

Luckily, Benedict, having been a man of action, and of extreme kindness and chivalry - when he wasn’t bedding his conquests – dived to her side in an instant, making sure her lithe form fell neatly into his arms without injury. He held her in a most intimate manner.

“Elizabeth?”

He asked her in a hush, as she stayed still, looking like she was deep in slumber.

His lower arm had caught her across her back, and the other at her knees. One of his legs bent at the knee and braced down on the tiled floor, stooping to catch her. Her red curls thrown over his arm as he held her. One of her arms tucked into her body, the other flailing out to the side, her knuckles brushing the floor where she had been seconds from falling too.

“Miss Elizabeth?”

He asked, louder, seeing she did not stir. His voice was concerned and searching for her response. But she was perfectly limp in his arms:

The last thing Elizabeth heard was gasps and exclaims as she fell to the floor like a useless sack of boneless skin, her dizzying vision dragging into twirling blackness as she faded out from reality into _nothingness._

 

~


	19. ~The Society Letters of Lady Jane Plidebright~

 

~

 

Well. Dear Readers. A veritable _waterfall_ of news came flooding in to this author’s ears this morning of what happenings took place at Lady Hartwright’s masquerade ball this evening last…

There was said to have been a great show at the first waltz, many enamoured couples stood up to declare their standing. But the chatter that this author is sure will be buzzing throughout every front parlour in London today, is the fact that – surprise surprise this author would wish to exclaim – That the Duke of Chatsworth stood up with Lady Elizabeth Farrow. There can be no question as to their announcement for their nuptials to come along very shortly. For this author has it on good authority that they did not leave each others side all night and did not cease for even a second with the silly enamoured smiles to their mouths. And that the Duke even was heard rebuffing the atrocious slights that One Poisonous young Miss Richworth wished upon Miss Farrow. If that is not love, dear readers, then this author will _eat_ her own hat. She dares to declare…

And dare she also point out that this news will not sit well with either Messrs' Burke…

Anyway, as news of the charming Farrow girl grows evermore bland to this writer, who fears she is feeling bursts of tedium in regards to this _gel_ who really ought quit the marriage mart now. And as such, I shall be moving on to other news which occurred at Lady Hartwright’s ball.

Five upstanding things have been reported:

The first, Was that Mrs Araminta Sharpe/Farrow’s costumed hips were declared to be too dangerous for her own good. Several ladies have reported twisting their ankles as a consequence of the things helping assist them on their way falling to the floor.

 

The second, was that Sophie Richworth was heard declaring she had definitely set her cap for Sir Benedict Carlton. And exclaimed she was madly in love. Which she was therefore said to have burst into tears of anger and shock at seeing Miss Farrow in the arms of Mr Carlton later on in the evening.

 

This leads me to number three, and it seems against my wishes, there is just no avoiding this young miss, but Elizabeth Farrow was said to have been taken ill towards the end of the evening, swooning in an unconscious state into Sir Benedict’s arms. Who was fortunate enough to catch the young woman before she fell and broke her head. He was so good as to return her to Mrs Sharpe, who hurried her and Miss Felicity, dressed as a sheep herderess of some variety, and who is not out in society yet, home. And the Duke of Chatsworth was said to have paled at the sight of Miss Elizabeth in his friends arms, instantly enquiring as to her state, and as to why her neck appeared to be bruised… _hmm, curiouser and curiouser…_

 

The fourth, was that the silliest costume award as declared by the trustworthy gentleman of the evening. Was that Miss Prudence Wyndam dressing a Carrot was declared the winner. Followed closely by Lady Bashford’s twin daughter's, Miss Jessamine Bashford and Miss Eunice Bashford who attended as the two separate halves of a pantomime horse. The third could be awarded to Miss Primrose Pennington, for coming dressed as on Octopus, but this author has it that she was not as enthusiastic as the two main winners, and as such, the poor thing should be excluded from any such list.

 

And that finally, the fifth, was that Felicity Farrow apparently gave the Elder Duke of Canterbury a rather severe – purely unintentional - eye injury with her Shepherds crook.

 

Quite a lot of injury happening about London these days, We can only pray this is a fleeting fancy of fate, dear readers….

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 8th ~

 

~

 

 


	20. Stormy Walks, Fresh Air, and Dangerous Adventures...

 

 ~

 

 

 

 

~ An ensemble similar to the one Elizabeth sports in this chapter, flowers, dress, hat and all....~

 

 

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“Elizabeth, Mrs Sharpe will throw a cantankerous paroxysm of the most _gargantuan_ proportions if she knew where we are. She said you were to given strict instructions as to remain indoors all day…” Felicity pointed out.

Elizabeth huffed, head held high as she walked ahead of her sister down the tarmac path. She had elected to get herself out of doors to get some fresh air in Hyde Park, bringing her Sister along as society dictated she must, and because Felicity was too argumentative to be refused on such an outing to the park. _Unfortunately_. And even more annoyingly her sister’s words were of some irritating truth. Mrs Sharpe was inisted last night, as to her fainting episode into Mr Carlton’s arms, and her stepmother had declared – with ultimate authority and final conviction on the matter - that she was to remain in the front parlour all day. Close to her bed or a sofa for if she felt faintness overwhelm her again. Elizabeth felt she could not point out that fresh air would do her bored 'injured' state wonders. 

“Have you been exploring the thesaurus in Father’s study again?”

Elizabeth asked her sister curiously as she skipped to catch up to her behind her striding gait. What such words as ‘cantankerous’ and ‘paroxysm’ were words that deserved to come out of the mouth of a most silly and unstudious sixteen year old? Anyway, never the matter…

She leant her head down to sniff at the intoxicatingly sweet roses she had procured from a street vender on their way here. She remembers blushing as he let her have them for ten shillings rather than the half crown they were usually priced at. _‘beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady’_ he had remarked. She had smiled sweetly, and insisted on pressing an extra shilling into his beefy hand for his troubles, to which he awarded her a wide grin, with one tooth missing from his upper jaw. He took his flat cap off to her, declaring she was as kind as she was pretty, too.

She had then paid no heed to how after they walked away, Libby cradling the paper wrapped crimson roses to her chest, and that Felicity had scoffed. “ _uhh, I declare there is not one man in London who does not fancy you, Elizabeth..”_ with a cheeky smile that she was famous for.

Because Elizabeth had then rolled her eyes and given her one of her finest looks of discernable irascability…

She daren’t exclaim that she agreed with her sister. Of course, she was dressed in one of her less finer gowns, she’d admit. Her rose pink coloured silk, with a dark blue decorated bowler hat on her head, and a long Navy velvet jacket over such, she had also put in the pearl droplet earrings that Mrs Sharpe had given her as a present for her 18th birthday. Her hair loosely coiffed up, as she had decided to do it herself this morning, not bothering to fetch Nessie. Already as she was walking along, she felt some curls come free from the hold in the pins. She didn’t look overly striking today, she had only swept on a light layer of cold cream, not having bothered with rouge on her cheeks. She didn’t mind her pale ness sometimes. She was still a little shaken from last night, she could tell, every now and then her hands would tremble. And it wouldn’t do to also exclaim that she had knotted a light silk blue scarf about her neck to cover it, so as Mrs Sharpe would not see her bruises caused by Mr Burkes rough assualting hands.

What was worse though, was that Sir Thomas had seen them. And would doubtless ask her questions as to how she got them. And she’d have to give him the awful truth…

He had declared he would call upon her at noon tomorrow, and it was twenty too twelve, now. She was walking fast as she was able, there was a hideous looking black sky towering over London in foggy grey clouds, threatening to unleash a storm of bitterly cold rain upon the city.

She and Felicity were cutting through a heavily wooded part of the park to get home faster. Her reveries inside her own fanciful head were cut short when she heard a low rumble of thunder roll across the sky like a deep clashing distraction pulling her from her own thoughts with the deepest sense of dread.

“I think we’d better be hasty Felicity, If we want to outrun the storm…”

Elizabeth said, her eyes to the sky. She turned about to her side as she spoke, where her sister had been walking alongside her a mere moment’s previously. But Elizabeth’s stomach dropped to her feet like a penny sinking into a fountain. She wasn’t there. She’d gone.

“ _Felicity?_ ”

She cried louder in horror and shock, spinning wildy around. There was no one else within distance whom she could see. No one else had been near them. They had passed some ladies and one gentleman earlier. But there had been no one since. _They_ were sensible enough to ensure they didn’t have to risk getting caught in _the storm… she thought to herself._

_She had been foolish enough to have the forethought to think she could avoid it also… Perhaps she should have listened to Mrs Sharpes wise advice and stayed indoors.._

_“_ Don’t get your _bloomers_ in a twist Elizabeth. I’m _up here_..”

Came Felicity’s disjointed voice from somewhere above her sister’s head, among the tall trees.

Libby craned her head upwards, to find that, of course, she could see a flash of her sister’s powder pink gown up high in a farwaway tree, Felicity had decided to _climb a tree_ , _among all things_. Sometimes it didn’t leave her wondering if her kid sister wasn’t half parented by a gang of apes.

“Get down, _this instance, you idiot_.”

Elizabeth called up to her, walking over to the tree that was perched precariously on part of the woods that carved away into a steep bank. Felicity ought have care how she came down, one step too far and she’d topple down the long steeped bank below them. And it didn’t look pleasant at the bottom, Elizabeth fancied as she peered down. Full of muck, sharp rocks and leaves to cushion ones fall. She didn’t wish for her sister to tumble down there for everything in the world…

The tree she had elected to climb up was wide and had enough of a branch to ensure that her sister had a good foothold. But it was a horse chestnut tree, if Libby wasn’t mistaken. The dark beige bark was slimy with moss and various green fungi. It made Elizabeth’s stomach lurch nervously to think what would happen if Felicity’s foothold slipped. Heavens, it made her _quite_ _sick_ thinking about it.

“I hope you and the Duke don’t sire children. If that’s how you choose to talk to your own baby sister, I shudder to think how you’ll address _your own_ little ones.…”

Felicity mocked, stepping across from one branch to another, holding ones located higher up in the tree with her hands.

Elizabeth’s head twisted back around to glance at the sky, the black clouds seemed angrier now, more full of stormy rain to unleash down on them with vicious fury. And they were gliding closer in their direction too. But what made her look was that another loud clash of thunder shook the sky, a flash of terrible lightning striking Elizabeth’s blood to run cold beforehand. And indeed, her worst fears were confirmed.

A single big fat, ice cold raindrop landed on her cheek. Bursting across her skin and rolling away down her cheek. And many more thudded down heavily to the ground surrounding her after it. It appears they did not have such good fortune as to avoid the storm _after all_.

“Felicity. Come down, it’s started raining, you’ll get drenched…”

Elizabeth called up, it had only been raining for a few seconds, and already the heavy drops that had battered down on her had trickled down the back of her coat and her silken pink collar, making her dreadfully cold, her back felt half soaked through already.

A shaky worried gasp escaped from Elizabeth’s lips as another strong fleet of wind and rain washed over her, accompanied by a rather severe lash of bright white lightning, and a deep boom of thunder. What made her so uneasy, was that it sounded right above them, in the very park they were walking through.

“Felicity, c _ome down, NOW!..”_

Elizabeth called, urgently. Her tone was one of worry and not-to-be-trifled-with command.

Felicity said naught but moved to adhere to her sister’s request. Holding onto one branch as she moved her feet onto a sturdier looking one. She had only been up the tree for no longer than a couple of moment’s, yet she was already soaked through. Her brown curls plastered to her neck, skin dripping wet and her gown felt sodden and heavy. Clinging to her legs. She didn’t like to do as she was told, especially not by her bossy and always right elder sister, but right then, she _really did_ want to come down. Whether as instructed, or by her own will. She didn’t care. She wanted to go home now.

Little did she know, that the branch she was stepping down onto, however, was _not_ as sturdy as it looked.

Felicity felt a sickening lurch of terror grip her innards, as her strong foothold suddenly felt like it would send her tumbling from the tree. The branch was starting to break away from the tree under her slight weight.

_“Elizabeth!”_

Felicity cried in terror. Her back thudding against the tree as she wrapped her arms back about it for dear life. Coppery eyes wide with terror as another flash of lightning lit up the sky, and angry thunder proceeded it.

Elizabeth felt sick, but she knew she had to try and help her sister.

The flowers she cradled closer to her shoulder, leaning up to the tree as she reached on tiptoes and held out one gloved hand, stretching her body up to try and reach Felicity.

“Slide down and give me your hand…”

Elizabeth urged slowly, Felicity would never forget the look that was on her sister’s face right then. Most people when in a similar state of panic would look wild, and frenzied. Aside from the slight wideness of her big baby doll blue eyes, she looked composed and serene as she looked up to help. Her red curls had dropped down with the weight of the rain, as it trickled off the brim of her hat, sticking tendrils of her red hair to the side of her neck and her face.

That was before she had an idea, in order to stop Felicity’s shoes slipping on the tree, she shucked off her coat and laid it at her sister’s feet. Meaning that now, she had virtually no defence against the unrelentless heavy spattering rain. As she slid her coat off, she had to try and dissaude her teeth from clacking together, her silk gown now sodden, sticking to her skin, making her icily cold.

“Lay that across the branch, you won’t slip that way..”

She insisted, calling loudly over the wind and thunder.

Felicity nodded. Eyes wide, and trembling with cold and terror. Shuffling the coat about under her feet. But it appears, not fannning it wide enough. Her flimsy slippers still managed to catch a small patch of slippy green moss that her sister’s coat didn’t cloak.

Felicity screamed as her foot was plunged down into thin air as she slipped, her leg kicking out to steady herself, but this was not wise, as the thing she caught her foot on, was, in fact the loose branch which now swung away from the tree.

Felicty couldn’t even spare the precious second to scream in warning to her sister.

Where Elizabeth had turned to look at a thrash of thunder and lightning that shook the ground, her head was turned away, so she didn’t see the cumbersome branch swing her way until it was far too late…

Felicity would also never forget the sickening thud as the heavy trees branch met with the back of Elizabeth’s head.

Felicity could only scream in helplessness as Libby was thrown clean off her feet, her lithe body hurtled far down the steep bank, away from Felicity’s sight. All she could now see was the scattered burst of rosepetals strewn across the leafy floor, leading like a hideous trail to where her sister had fallen. The branch had also swept her hat clean from her head. That too now lay forgotten on the woods floor. 

_“LIBBY!”_

Felicity yelled.

She couldn’t tell whether tears or rain were cascading down her face now, but all she knows is, that she had to try and help her sister. She slid the rest of the way out of the tree, tugging the coat with her, placing it over herself to try and keep herself as dry as she could. The coat was sodden too. She landed with a thud onto the ground, not caring that her dress was now streaked with mud and bits of undergrowth as she landed by falling onto her front.

When she scrambled up, she could see that her hem was six inches deep in muck, and her ankle throbbed so painfully that she almost couldn’t walk on it. But nonetheless, she staggered down over the lip of the pit Libby had gone down, nearly tumbling head over heels, it was so steep, as she ran through the pelting rain down to Elizabeth. Trying not to tread on the huge navy swathes of her sister’s soggy coat that was much too big for her.

She was able to see her sister’s form lay several metres below her, rested at the bottom of the steep banked pit. Her body looked broken and fragmented, she lay on her side, facing away from Felicity, her red hair tangled and most of it thrown free from her pins, the red curls now matted with dirt and stray leaves. Her clothes too, were mussed and covered in dirt and wet mud, her gown looked sodden to the touch. Felicity let out a sob as she got to her sister, placing her hands to her sisters back, shaking her to try and wake her up.

“Elizabeth, _please, wake up…”_

She sobbed, stroking red hairs away that had been thrown into her pale face, stuck there by the rain. Felicity’s small muddy hands, from where she landed flat to the ground out of the tree, left a smudge of dirt across Libby’s pale cheek.

_“Elizabeth please..”_

Felicity shook harder. Nudging her shoulder now with both hands, shaking her more furiously in attempts to wake her. But it was no use. Every new shake just confirmed her fears, that her sister was just limp under her attentions. Head rolling about unresponsive on her neck. Looking like she was deep and sound asleep.

Felicity wiped a hand down her face. She had to leave her to go and get help. It was dangerous, but otherwise, if she just left her here, she could die. How had such a simple walk in the park turned _to this horrific catastrophe?_

She tried to move her sister, seeing if she could maybe carry her. But it was no use, her sister wasn’t heavy at all. But the fact that she was dressed in a now soaked through gown of silk, and all the heavy underskirts would mean she was of no weight that a slight sixteen year old could manage on their own.

“ _Elizabeth, I’ll go home, I’ll go and get help!”_

She spoke to her sister speaking loudly through the rain and thunder, she didn’t care if she could hear her or not. She sobbed through her words, taking one last tearful glance at her big sister, as if she never would again, before tearing herself away and running in the quickest direction that would lead her right home as fast as she was able.

She tore through the woods as fast as her spindly legs would carry her. Not stopping even when she tripped and stumbled, falling over to land with her lungs winded, she just scrambled up, sobbing and carried on running. She didn’t even flinch as she ran full pelt through the trees, and one spindly branch carved a deep searing scratch across her cheek. She wiped away the tear of blood and continued to run, hair sailing out behind her, lungs pounding as much as her slippered feet were. But she didn’t care. She had to get help.

 

Elizabeth’s life depended on it.

 

Little did the youngest Farrow Miss know, but there was a spectator to the little heartrending happenstance during the rain and thunder. He sat far away, watching from horseback as the whole thing unfolded, the tree branch hitting Elizabeth, Felicity stumbling from the tree, landing awkwardy, no doubt injuring her leg as she now limped to attend her sister, before running away, presumably to fetch help, he had seen it all. He was cutting through the park to avoid the storm when he saw them both, there was no mistaking that Eldest Miss Farrow’s red hair from even a mile off. He had watched over her with those dark brown eyes, rimmed with a slight tinge of green, looking over it all from under the brim of his hat. Face stony and unresponsive. And then, Marcus Burke turned his horse about, and galloped away in the opposite direction as quickly as he had come.

_It wasn’t up to him to care…_

 

 

~

 

 


	21. Horse Riding Saviors, Anxious Waiting, and a Little Sister's Approval...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ Sir Thomas's Waistcoat (I just adore the clothes of the Victorian Era..) ~

 

 

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_“CURSE AND BLAST THE DAMNED GEL!”_

 

Mrs Sharpe cried loudly, having found the precarious note perched on the small table in the front parlour that had been hand written and left for her to find by Elizabeth.

 She had been taking tea and brunch in the Orangery with her very good close friend, and close confidant, Lady Portia Forthtonne. And as such, had not been privy to the fact that both her stepdaughters had taken themselves off for a little jaunt through Hyde park, to take in some fresh air, as the note suggested. Sneaking away whilst her back was turned.

Mrs Sharpe had been very stern about the fact that Elizabeth had ought remain to bed, and in doors for the rest of the day. But. Clearly. The stubborn donkey headed miss had elected to ignore her. 

“Damn, silly, foolish, headstrong, stubborn gel!”

She exclaimed, re-reading the note again. Crossing from the front parlour, her shawl pulled angrily about her shoulders, and her white lace cap topping her hair, bundling her grey curls atop her head....

Let them just see what Richard had to say about it to them upon their return.

She crossed the hall like the furious woman she was, with a heavy vengeance to impart her rage upon her two infuriatingly iron-willed stepdaughters.

She knocked rapidly, a number of times on Mr Farrow’s study door. Her patience having been worn thin to its absolute ultimate minimum.

There was a long moment of silence from within, presumably her husbands japing attempt to wind her up even further. Before he finally elected to open the door. Seeing that his wife’s face was not a happy one. She looked ready to spit venom at the source of whatever the note she clutched in her hands, read.

“Something vexes you my dear?” He stated obviously.

“You and I, Sir, have a most _immovable_ set of imprudently reckless not to mention _foolish_ , daughters..” She insisted.

“What have they done now?”

Richard Farrow asked, his lips beholding a small amused smile. They had such great talents for disturbing his wife, he often wondered who was the lesser of the two evils. He could doubtless be assured that Elizabeth’s reasons for vexing his second wife was just and probably always were correct, no matter how wrong she deemed them. Elizabeth was level headed enough to always be rightfully wise. Whereas Felicity was, _to be sure_ , causing Mrs Sharpe to reach the end of her tether due to something most unsubtantial and of next to no consequence.

“They have decided to go out of doors without my permission. Elizabeth should not be up and about, not after she was exerted to a state of faintness yesterday.” Mrs Sharpe insisted.

“My dear, it is a walk in the park, rest assured they will be home any second. It is not as evil as you may think.”

“Elizabeth is unchaperoned!” Mrs Sharpe pointed out.

“You’ve met my tenasciously spirited daughter, Araminata, have you not? I imagine they’ll be fine.”

“Richard Farrow.. unless you..”

They were both cut off by a sharp rapping knock to their front door. And the unmistakable sound of tunder rolling across London in the distance. But neither of them had heard it.

Hawkin’s swept past them both to answer it. Pulling it open to find a pleasantly familiar face the other side of it.

“..Unless you no have care to your daughter’s reputation, I demand you send someone out to find her immediately. Send Nessie…that gel will talk some sense into your mare of an eldest daughter.” She insisted.

“Calm yourself, my dear. Do be calm, they shall return any moment.” He assured.

“Good afternoon, Lady Farrow, Sir Richard.” Came a silky male voice from beside them both.

Both Farrow’s turned to see the Duke of Chatsworth stood smiling at them both, a top hat on his head, and a large weathered overcoat atop his fine suit. Today he wore a lovely black velvet paisley detailed waistcoat, atop a black shirt tied and knotted to his neck with a black cravat. On his legs he wore black breeches, and his customary dark black leather boots stretched up his long legs. Atop all of such he had a long overcoat, that too black. As was his top hat. Both were also beaded with drops of rain, and in his hands, he held a large bunch of crimson roses, those too were spattered with drops of rain. He looked dark and forboding, but they all knew his manner to be otherwise, the polar opposite, to be precise.

Hawkins shut the door behind the Duke, who politely wiped his feet on the doormat.

“ _Oh_ , Sir Thomas.”

Mrs Sharpe swallowed. Wringing her hands in nervousness.

“I’m afraid you have not found us at a pleasant time, Sir.”

Richard Farrow added, peering down, with humour sparkling in his wide eyes.

They both watched as the young man’s smile faded, as he handed Hawkin’s his top hat. Crossing to them both with an urgent look of concern weighing down his handsome features.

“I hope nothing is of too severe a matter. I came in the hopes to call upon Elizabeth, dependant on if she is well enough to receive me, of course.”

Sir Thomas asked, still clutching the roses in his hands,

All three of them looked to the ceiling, and out of the window at the top of the door, seeing the sky cloud over, rain spitting at the city. Suddenly, Sir Richard looked a little unsettled.

“Did you walk here, Sir Thomas?” Sir Richard asked gravely.

“I came on horseback, your stable hand was out front to put my horse to the back for me.”

He explained. It was raining something fierce, it was not a wonder he was not more soaked than he was...

“Did you hear that Thunder, Richard, see, what did I tell you there would be a storm. Will you not _worry for_ your daughters now?”

Mrs Sharpe asked screechily.

Sir Thomas’s stomach thudded to his boots.

“Elizabeth is out of doors?”

He asked in a solemn tone.

“As is Felicity.”

Mrs Sharpe spoke wearily.

“They took a walk to Hyde Park to get some fresh air. Oh, that _stubborn fool, Elizabeth_ … Oh, Why _didn’t she listen to me?._ ”

Mrs Sharpe cursed, wailing sadly.

Another rap of thunder shook the skies. Sir Thomas’s blood ran cold.

“I’ll have the carriage brought around right away.”

Sir Richard spoke seriously in a low tone. Now knowing his wife's worries were, _alarmingly_ , for once, not trivial. Moving to grab his coat and hat.

Sir Thomas leapt into action.

He shoved the roses down onto the side, and politely interjected himself onto the situation. All three of them were starting to feel the first dreggs of cold and awful panic seep in.

“With respect Sir, I fear that will take too long. Allow me, I can mount my horse and cover more ground looking for-“

His words were halted by someone banging sheer hell fury onto their front door. Rattling the knocker, scraping the wood, banging it with all their might.

He didn’t stand on ceremony and wait for Hawkin’s to come to open the door, he yanked it inwards himself. Surely whomever was on the other side of it would perish in mortal embrassment, if in any other situation, a landed gentleman such as a  _Duke_ was there to welcome them at the door. Let alone go to the hassle of opening it for them. 

As it was, when the door opened, all of them near gasped in horror to see Felicity crumple to the hallway floor. In such a state none of them had _ever_ hoped to see her in. 

She was soaked to the bone, her gown plastered to her legs, her slippers weren’t a pale pink anymore, they were sodden brown with thick clumps of mud and muck. Her hem was inches thick, crusted with wet dirt and leaves, and she had a far too big navy jacket swatching her soggy figure. And her face had a large red bleeding scratch etched across her left cheek.

Mrs Sharpe nearly keeled over...

_That was Elizabeth's jacket, heavens only knows what had occurred for her to be without it... And for Felicity to look the way she did..._

Sir Thomas dropped to his knee’s instantly, peeling the poor soggy girl from the floor. Mrs Sharpe gasped in horror, tears spearing her eyes as she clutched her husbands arm at the sight before them. Covering her mouth with her hand as she sobbed. 

Felicity was near _catatonic_.

Tears were weeping down her bleeding and grubby cheeks, and she didn’t care that she had only met the Duke a number of measly times, and that she wasn’t related to him. Or knew him well enough even. But, right then, she cared not one bit. she was just so happy to see _someone_ who she _knew_.

She sobbed and flung her arms about his neck as he knelt down on one knee to her.

He held her close, and Felicity liked how he was _so kind_ , and was eventually - hopefully - going to be her brother-in-law. He even _looked_ sympathetic and gentle, wiping her soggy hair back away from her cheeks as she stood sobbing, one stray black curl of hair of his slunk down in front of his eyes that just looked so blue, and compassionate and caring, and he _didn’t have to be_ , that’s what caused her to engulf her sister’s wiry yet strong suitor into a grateful  _hug_.

He didn’t have to be kind to her...

He could have done what Marcus Burke had done and ignored her, snubbing the silly little chit off as if she didn’t exist. (Elizabeth had remarked to Felicity she most certainly _did not like_ how he treated her sister) but right then, she really did love Sir Thomas in a familial kind of way.

He had brought her sweets before he had even _met_ her, and they were _divine_. He had laughed at her crude jokes, shared some of the cruder ones he knew right back. And he encouraged her to persue her ferocity in not wanting to sew for a hobby. He had even, when they had been out walking in Russell Square last week, stopped her favourite bonnet from blowing away in the strong wind, tying it back on her head with care. Marcus Burke had barely acknowledged her as anything other than a pesky flea on his shoulder that he wished to flick away. He was handsome. She'd grant. But she hated him. And she now _adored_ Sir Thomas. The handsome Duke. 

Without a doubt, she knew this was the man she wanted for her sister to wed.

A sob burst forth from her mouth as she held him tight, liking that he smelt like musky cologne, mint, and fresh masculine soap. She also felt his hand come up, one cradling the back of her head, the other soothingly carting and rubbing across her soggy back as he cooed a soft whisper into her ear to calm her.

Her coat, he noted, must have belonged to Libby. It smelt like her, the scent that warmed his gut when he detected it. Lavenders, lillies and honey. Plus, the coat was of a drowning size to Felicity. It _couldn't_ have been her own. 

“ _Sssshhh,_ Felicity, It’s alright..You’re _safe_ now. You’re home.”

He soothed her. Seeing that Mrs Sharpe had gone and fetched their blonde ladies maid, who swung around him in the narrow hall and looped a towel about her shoulders. He took her cheek in his hand, to find her skin was ice and that her teeth were chattering.

“E-ELizabethhh. tr-Tree and-d a B-Bank. f-Fell” She gasped.

“Where is she?”

Sir Thomas asked urgently, but no less kindly. His eyes looked searchingly into her own with easy grace and consideration. He didn’t try and rush the information out of her, as she was clearly shaken.

“H-Hyde Ppp-pPArk.” She got out finally.

“Up-p in the direction of the r-round P-pond. Bbetween-n Kensingt-ton Garden-ss and the long-g wat-wat-ter..”

She explained through her clattering teeth. He banked the information as if his own mortality depended on it.

“Go and get her warmed right away.”

Sir Thomas spoke softly in thoughtful power to their Ladies maid.

“She’ll need a hot bath, and have something hot to eat, resting in her stomach too, best way to cure it, I find. I’ve seen this many times before in the Crimea…”

He explained, as to his authorative commands. How many times had he seen soldiers in his regiment perish from such a similar predicament, soaked to the bone and shivering.

Scorching warmth all over and, if avaliable, from inside out too, it was the quickest cure. It always did the trick. He found. 

Both elder Farrows gave one another a look. The Crimean War was a detail they had not heard of the Duke participating in. It was news to them that he had seen action. Here was a man of command and high rank, calmly ordering his way through their crisis. They were thankful for that trait to him. 

“Right away, Your lordship.”

Nessie nodded politely, helping Felicity walk away above stairs. Guiding her by the shoulders.

“Please-e help-p her, sir-r T-Thomas..”

Felicity mumbled weakly before she was steered away.

“I Will.”

He promised her with stern blue eyes, a trustworthy nod, and a squeeze to her cold little hands before she left.

As Thomas stood again, Sir Richard stepped forwards and clapped a hand to his tall shoulder.

“Shall, I have Hawkin’s ask to have your horse brought round? Can I lend any assistance?”

He asked.

“Thank you, Sir. But no. Time is of the essence, I’ll ride from the stables directly...I shall manage by myself. I think you are needed more, here, Sir."

He answered. Looking across to Araminta. 

Mrs Sharpe wiped tears from her eyes.

“ _Oh_ , Sir Thomas, please find _our_ girl and _bring_ her home.”

She wept huge fat tears bursting down from her warm butterscotch eyes, her husband gave her his hankerchief, stemming her tears, placing an arm about her.

“I will M’am. I won’t rest til I find her, and have her safely home, I promise you that much."

He swore, both to them, to Libby, to god, and himself.

And then he was off, into the storm to rescue his beloved Farrow girl.

He sprinted out down the steps and round the back of the townhouse to the Farrow’s stables. The stableboy looked like he might have a coronary at the sight of The Duke of Chatsworth come to enquire _directly_  himself as to his own horse.

He thanked him, before he mounted and galloped off, urging his horse, Maximus, the trusty white steed he had ridden down on from Derbyshire, on all the way.

He had owned Max since he was 17, and had a close bond with the animal alike any nobleman had with his most trusted horse and companion. Shoots, hunts, long rides, just because Thomas felt like it. Max had been on all with his master on his back, and happily so, he even did a few tricks that Sir Thomas had taken the time to teach him.

The rain was a relentless sheet of ice cold droplets. The wind whipped around him as he rode fast through the streets, luckily, not many carriages or other riders were about the roads to slow him down. He raced down Bedford Avenue, and sped at a relentless gallop down Tottenham Court Road, as fast as Max could manage him. He passed the upper nothern corner of the park in a blur, he would comb through each inch of woodland until he found Elizabeth, once he got over the long pond, past the West Carriage Drive that cut through the park. Felicity had said she was up past the round pond, and between Kensington Gardens, and across down from the The Long Water.

"Come on, Max.."

He encouraged gently but Loudly. 

Max thudded his hooves down fast at his masters urging across the softer woodland ground, sodden by the driving rain. Thomas whipped the reins, urging him on faster, if he was able, softer ground was by far kinder on his hooves for running. Better grip, he supposed.

Eventually after what felt like a thousand dreadful years of fret and panic, he reached the area of the forest he hoped Felicity was talking about. He scanned about, feeling wisps of his dark hair plastered to his face in the rain, squinting through it to try and see, as he moved. He had forgone his hat, so now his hair and below his collar was soaked. He hadn’t even bothered to do his coat up, it had flapped at his sides as he rode as if he were wearing a black cloak like some dark fairytale villian. His neck and chest felt sodden, as did the upper legs of his breeches. But he cared very little about such in that moment.

Felicity had muttered something through chattered teeth about a tree, and a bank.

And he could see a tree several metres away, striped with slippery green moss, and of which a branch had been –recently – torn away from the tree. Judging by the ripped and splintered stub that chose to remain on the bark.

He thwacked Max’s reins, digging his heel in just so in order for the horse to proceed quickly over to the tree. That was when he saw a flash of something red, trodden to the leaves below him.

He frowned, Pulling Max to a stop, and sliding off him. Dropping as quick as a stone in a pond to the floor, picking up the thing that he could now see, was a rose petal.

He frowned. Before his eyes found another, and another. And then more crushed corpses of flowers that used to be red roses littering the floor. Some were whole. Some were beaten and battered.

His eyes followed the path of petals and stalks, until it came to a shredded rose, led on the lip of the bank that carved away to a deep pit.

His gut dropped when he saw the navy decorated and ruffled Bowler hat led on the floor. 

He stood, looking down past it. Seeing a flash of rose pink silk… and was that, dirty, curled…red…hair.

 

His heart Stopped.

 

_He had found Elizabeth._

 

He didn’t know how fast his legs carried him, or that he nearly slipped. He didn’t care. He ran at full pelt to her side, seeing she was led facing away from him. he fell to his knees as his hands came about her back, feeling his hands were left soaked after her touched her. _She was drenched to the bone._ He turned so she led onto her back, a sob escaping his throat as he saw she was limp and lifeless, and also because there was a trickle of dark blood leading down from the top of her forehead, dribbling down over her eyebrow.

He cradled her cold face in his hands, trying not to let himself curl up and cry atop her resting form at the sight of her like this. He swallowed, his instincts overriding his overwhelming panic and fear for the woman he was very sure he had fallen _so very_ madly in love with.

His desire to not loose her kicked in. He leaned over her, skimming her pale arms to find that they too, aswell as her lovely cheeks, were ice. He scraped his wet hair back with one hand as he braced over her, pressing his ear to her chest, hoping he would be rewarded with hearing her heart beat.

He did.

And he sent Thanks to god, his mother, his dog, the spider in his bathroom, and to all of the sodding Queen’s horses and all of the Queens men.

It was there.

It was _faint._

_But it was there….and that was good enough for him…_

“I can’t loose you Elizabeth. _I can’t and I won’t.”_

He insisted. Speaking harshly to her. 

“So _don’t you dare_ make me wish to turn back the clock, and find you sooner and love you for longer. Because I won’t do it, you hear me, Elizabeth? _I won’t do it. You have to get through this for me._ ”

He sniffed, hysteria breaking his resolve, bracing one knee down into the dirt, scooping his arms under her, seeing that lovely red hair was matted and tangled with leaves and dirt. She was such a slight petite creature, it was no effort to brace her little body in his arms and sweep her back up the hill in the still pouring rain to where Max was waiting.

He braced her limp body across Max’s shoulders, holding her there before he swung up himself. Curling her against his chest as he urged Max to gallop once more, holding her tight, taking the love of his life home, away to safety and out of the pouring cold rain.

 

 

~

 

Mrs Sharpe was watching out of the front door, with as much tears running down her cheeks as there was rain pouring from the sky.

She had in her hand a hankie that her husband had bestowed kindly upon her. And every now and then she would press them to her cheeks as she stood out in the ripping wind and the pouring rain. Every new roll of thunder across the distant sky speared more agonized dread deep into her heart.

It was true she didn’t have much in her life that she could call as magnificent, until she married Sir Richard. And then she found her world was complete. Because even being stepmother to his two girls was everything she had _ever_ wanted. She had never approached them nastily, of course, she didn’t find them well after mourning the death of their beloved mother. Yet, they received her so kindly, not a bad word or thought for her. She truly felt sometimes, even though she knew she shouldn’t, but that she was sometimes thought of as their _true_ mother.

It does not fade easily, the knowledge that one cannot bare children, but ever since she had been told this a year before she met Sir Richard, when she became part of their family, his girls had helped her forget this evermore. They made her so very  _happy_ again.

Her days were re-filled from empty solitary ones, now with ribbon shopping, gown choosing, trying to persuade Felicity against all odds that sewing _was crucial_ to a young lady, and snickering with Elizabeth about _how silly_ some of the gossip they heard, was. They gave her _life_ again. A purpose to her otherwise paltry and _bland_  existence. 

She now had two beautiful girls, whom were her pride and joy, depsite both their infuriating habits, and who she quite adored, and whom loved her back equally as so. _Something mad_. And she loved the both of them more than she could _ever_ articulate.

And now, she was worried that part of her world would be snatched away from her without her consent.

She _couldn’t_ loose her Elizabeth. Not to something as worthless as the fever that she would be bound to catch from heading out in this driving storm.

 _Not for all the jewels, palaces and money in the world._ That is what she always used to say when she tucked her into bed after many a nightmare after their mother passed. Araminta would always wake to her cries at night, and rush to soothe them. She'd mop away the tears and hold them close for a moment. Knowing that they needed a bit of mothering sentiment…

 _“I love you my dear. And even if someone asked me to give you up. I couldn’t. Not for all the jewels in the world. Nor all the fine palaces, and all the money god could grant me. Even for all that. I’d never give you up.”_ She’d soothe, carting a hand over Elizabeth’s clammy forehead after she would wake up sobbing in the night.

 _“I love you, my dove. Goodnight, and may your thoughts be sweet...”_ She'd say to help her drift back to pleasant and softer dreams. 

Nessie stood behind Mrs Sharpe in the cover of front door, holding out a black umbrella over the woman of the house. Watching as she kept trying to stem her tears. Her lip wobbling with every new thrash of thunder. Her shawl pulled tight about her shoulders as she stood, trying miserably to keep out the cold. She was failing. Nessie could see, the woman was trembling and shaking. Wiping the back of her hand across her nose every now and then. She must have been freezing. But she _would not_ come inside. _'Not until my Elizabeth is safe inside too.'_ She had cried. 

Felicity had been stripped, and plunged into a hot bath, and then bundled into her bed with lots of extra blankets, with a hot brick at her feet. And now with Briggsy, the kind matronly housekeeper, forcing piping hot chicken broth down her throat, as per the Duke’s instruction to get her warmed from the inside out.

Nessie stepped forwards, and curled a hand about Mrs Sharpes shoulder.

“Don’t loose heart m’am. ‘E’ll find her.” Nessie assured.

Mrs Sharpes chin wobbled all the more, and she cried, great big fat tears ribboning down over her cheeks. She stemmed them with the hankie. Curling the soggy cloth into a ball in her hand.

“ _Oh_ , what am I going to do without her, Nessie.”

She asked, eyes weeping all the more as she wondered aloud.

Judging from her tone, Nessie could infer that she didn’t require an answer.

“With Respect, M’am. I don’t think the Duke will allow you to find that out.” She spoke wisely.

Mrs Sharpe prayed that she was right in that respect.

The both of them were looking out into the rainy street ahead of them. Where Richard Farrow was pacing the pavement doggedly. Dressed with his rain coat atop his suit. Top hat on his head, water tipping off the rim as he moved about, peering off down the street every few seconds.

He was pacing about as if he were in his own study going over some most puzzling sums. Hands clasped behind his back, and his head bowed down, watching as his booted feet scuffed through gathering puddles on the pavement. He too refused to come in.

Hawkin’s had offered to stand out there with him, and shield him from the rain with another umbrella, but he had stubbornly refused.

Nessie took her proverbial hat off to them both. Not only were they the nicest people in London to run a house for. But they were also devoted to their family in a way that was quite rare for the society of the day. 

She had worked for a family of people before the Farrow’s, who barely crossed each other’s paths once a year. And when they did, they didn’t have a single pleasant word for one another. They had talked more to the staff than to their own relations. Which she was baffled by when she came to the Farrow House, to find that they conversed at Dinner, avidly and passionately. They japed together, read books together, took breakfast as a whole family, and spent as much time with each other as ever they pleased.

It was _so touching_ , and it made Nessie decide in a single moment, if god had seen fit to grant her another set of parent’s, after her own orphaned her at three, leaving her in the company of workhouses and orphanages until she was sent away to work at the ripe age of 13, then if she could wish for another, she would want them to be of the _exact_ same water as Mr Farrow, Mrs Sharpe, and their children. And if she ever was so lucky enough as to one day have a family, she too would want them to be as close as the unfailingly kind hearted people she worked for.

Because at the end of it all, under all the japes, side-swipes and mocking one another's characters, they all loved each other with such intensity it made her heart ache.

All of their heads whipped down the street as they heard the distant clop of horses hooves shatter the sound of silence, storms and rain.

And then, The three of them saw such a sight that caused a such a unified amount of joy and relief they couldn’t express it, even if they had wanted too.

A white horse came into view down the end of the street, moving fast towards them, carrying two people. More importantly, A horse carrying the Duke of Chatsworth, and the limp figure clad in rosy silk, that could only be Elizabeth, led prostrate, clasped to his chest, as he came full pelt to stop in front of them all.

Sir Richard called through the rain, for Percy, their stable hand, to attend the horse, as Sir Thomas rode up to them all, and swiftly dismounted, Tugging Elizabeth into his hold as he did, as Percy came through the rain and drew Max to safety, as Sir Thomas instructed that he had thrown a shoe on the way over.

Mrs Sharpe leapt into action as The Duke swept into the house with Elizabeth, Sir Richard bounding up the steps after them

“Show me where to take her…”

He insisted, his voice hoarse and saddened, shuffling his feet sharply over the towels that had been lain across the hallway floor, in preparation for their return. So they didn't slip on the tiles. 

Mrs Sharpe led the way as Sir Richard shut the door in the Dukes wake. Looking up after them as his wife swept Sir Thomas away above stairs to her daughters room.

He would never say, but his heart ached painfully in his chest upon seeing Elizabeth the way she was. His usually jovial, fiery, always strong-willed daughter looked limp, pale and small. And that was three things she never was. She was so full of life, and fire, much like her late mother had been, and it had always made him smile.

But now, he didn’t think he had ever seen a sight as raw, as the one of her cradled to the Duke’s chest. Her skin as pale as the first sheet of fallen undisturbed snow, which made the blood that seeped down from her brow all the more evident, aswell as the heavy purple bruise too that had begun to flower across her forehead.

Her lips were rested softly together, and her eyes were clamped shut, her long petal like lashes sticking softly to her wet cheeks. Her dress was destroyed too, possibly beyond use for her to wear ever again. The dusty rose silk covered in smudges of dirt and sticky traces of mud all over her, the back of her was completely dirty where she had been led down on the forest floor for some time. Her sodden gown was dripping water across the carpets, she was _that_ soaked through.

He watched as she was ferried away out of sight. Nessie rushing to their aid too. Holding her moss green skirts out of the way as she ascended the stairs, thundering up after them.

Sir Thomas followed Mrs Sharpe to a room not far away down the landing. It _felt_ like Elizabeth’s room as he entered, he realised.

He could see a wooden vanity table and mirror ahead of him. With nothing atop it but a few cosmetic bottles, and a hairbrush. Her room was kept neat and tidy, and he knew it was hers right away, as a wonderfully pretty looking gown had been hung up outside her wardrobe, it was a silvery shimmering wheat gold colour, beautifully crafted, trimmed with pearls in some places, and he had no doubt that it was the one Mrs Sharpe had picked out for her to wear to receive him, it sounded mad, but the gown _looked_ like Elizabeth. It would make her hair stand out like curling flames, and her skin look more supple, and just like her, it was elegant without managing to be overbearing, just as she always was. And also, there he could see, next to her bed, was a single ivory rose in a vase.

_The ones he had brought for her the morning after he had first met her..._

 He was amazed it was still in bloom. He could just imagine her, sniffing at it and thinking of him before she went to sleep, to dream of him. He _adored_ that thought…

He laid her down on the bed that had already been strewn with many towels, he withdrew his hands out from under her soggy figure, drawing back as Mrs Sharpe and Nessie got to work rolling her to one side to get to the laces at the back of her dress. He just stared down at her, he didn’t really have time to digest his fears when he had found her, he had instead pushed it aside to focus on getting her to safety. But now, it flooded his thoughts with a furious vengeance.

He swallowed, he was soaked to the skin too. But he didn’t care. His coat had done a relatively good job of keeping the water off him. But his front felt dripping. His velvet waistcoat was wringing wet, as were his breeches from the knees down to his boots. Of which, water squelched around inside of it. Soaking his toes. His shirt and cravat also clung wetly to his skin. And his face was dripping rain water droplets everywhere too. He could feel it running off down his chin, curving over his jaw, but wiping his arm to his face did relatively little to stem it. His hair was cold and wet too, curling at his nape, the curls having dropped down with the weight of the rain that battered him.

But now sorrow was weighing down his brow, making his face as white as a sheet, and those infamously blue eyes of his burn from his complexion with alarmingly vivid colour, like two sapphires under spotlights.

He barely registered Mrs Sharpe moving away from her stepdaughters ill frame on the bed, and moving across to him as he looked down upon Libby with such fervent worry.

“Come, Sir Thomas. You will make yourself ill seeing her like this…”

She insisted softly, guiding him out of the room.

“I can- I can’t leave her…”

He tried to persist, Voice straining with sadness.

“I think you must, just for a while whilst we strip her and get her warmed..”

She insisted. Taking the poor shaken man out by the elbow, away down the hall, placing a towel about his shoulders. He saw they were coming to Hawkins in the hall, gesturing his hand into an empty guest room. As he rounded the door, he could see that a roaring fire had been lit, and that some of _his own_ clothes were lain out on the small double four poster bed.

He frowned, about to ask as to why, when Mrs Sharpe answered him at his confused look.

“I sent for Percy to run to Bloomsbury Street to fetch some of your things to be brought here. I had a sneaking suspicion you would not want to leave this house, or her side, whilst she recovers.”

Mrs Sharpe insisted.

He nodded his head, swallowing through a small, broken and shattered thank-you to her.

“… Besides, I could not send you home in such a state, you’d die of a cold before you made it to Sir Carltons front door, for heavens sake. As your hostess, I insist you partake in a bath, and change into some dry clothes and warm up. And I will not have you even _think_ of refusing to join us for Dinner tonight.”

She spoke in a commanding tone of an utterly stubborn Mama who was used to getting her way, her tone was that was of, without a doubt, something which was far above the reaches of his contestation.

“But-“

He began, and again, she cut him off.

“After what you have just done, for _both_ my daughters, I cannot believe you can _still_ find measures and courage, and not to mention the _energy_ of which to argue against me. I _shan't_ hear a single syllable of it."

She assured him, speaking in a manner that could turn _dangerous_ if he fought her once more, he wagered.

“Thank you. Mrs Sharpe.”

He sighed in a croak. He hadn’t _truly_ realised how the cold had sapped his energy until now. He didn’t wish to argue. His throat was sore, he wanted to be warm, and to sleep for a very long while, and to awaken to a point when he could be assured Elizabeth was going to make it. To a point where she would be awake, smiling, laughing and kissing him again. 

“It is not _you_ whom should be doing the thanking, Thomas.”

She assured him sternly, and kindly as she swept out of the room. Rushing back down the hall to attend to mending her world to rights once more.

Hawkins shut the door after her, assuring Sir Thomas that a piping hot bath awaited him in the en-suite.

He nodded. Thanking the kind astute Butler.

And after the door shut, he began to undress to drop himself into that heavenly sounding bath before he too began to chatter with cold. Praying every second all the while, that his future Duchess of Chatsworth would live through it. Or so help him, he would _not know_ what to do, should he have to go on without her…

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

An hour or so later, and Sir Thomas was still above stairs, he had taken his own advice, and Mrs Sharpes not to be crossed insistance, and had warmed up in the bath, before redressing in the dry clothes that had been sent over for him from Benedict’s. This left him in another pair of biscuit coloured breeches, with a midnight blue and black patterned velvet waistcoat, he had not felt the need to bother with a cravat. He had pulled on his other pair of - drier – tall tan riding boots to keep his toes warm.

And now he sat watching the flames twirl their hynotic heated dance in front of him in the mantelpiece. Feeling its warmth seep across his skin soothingly, running down his jaw as he leaned forwards on the armchair that he had moved to perch close to the fire to keep himself warmed through.

The Farrow household was truly, he thought, one of the most homely places to be in all of London. The young blonde maid, whose name her learned was Nessie, had swept in earlier and exclaimed she had a large bowl of chicken broth sent up from the kitchens to help aid in warming him, along with half a loaf of crusty bread to mop it up. But even Nessie could see, the man was still worrying madly about Elizabeth.

Nessie felt she had to speak up to soothe his spirits.

“I know it ain’t my place to say. But, she’s doin’ alright, Sir. She was responsive not too long ago, and the Doctor is just addressing her now. I ‘ope that ‘elps if but a little..”

She sighed, nervously fidgeting with her hands as she spoke.

He nodded, and asked for her name. Which she granted him. He smiled. Telling her what a lovely name it was. She blushed a little, ducking out of the room, after telling him She was under instructions as to tell Mrs Sharpe if he didn’t eat all of his soup. And warning him that he was most likely in for a stern reprimand or a rap across the knuckles if he did not.

He chuckled softly at that image as she slid away. And, because he didn’t fancy the threat of a sore bruised set of knuckles, he ate all of the soup and all the bread. Not realising he had also been famished, too.

Then, a little while after that, after he had slept if but for only a half hour, he had decided to move the chair closer to the fire, and watch it. Doubling in the task of giving him something to do, stoking it, and also serving as something to keep him warmed.

He also hadn’t realised that as he sat there, worrying for his future bride, and love of his life. That a single tear had wormed down his cheek, made evident and shining by the fires light in front of him as another joined it, bursting down from his teary eyes. Lighting up the trail of the tear like an amber ribbon carving through his pale cheek. 

That was when a timid little knock came at his door. He didn’t answer to that, he stayed silent. But the figure in the hallway swept in anyway.

Sir Thomas didn’t bother wiping away the tear, what would be the point? He left them where they were as he looked at the young girl who stood in front of him. Looking drier than when he had seen her last, her brown hair twisted away from her face, cheeky copper eyes looking cheeky no more, they looked solemn and understanding now. The scratch on her face now a thin red mark after her wound had been cleaned. She was clad in a long thick nightie, with a dressing gown tied tight across her waist. To keep in the warm. Araminta had insisted.

He sniffled. He knew nothing than to wallow in his grief. And profess nothing but sheer honesty to the youngest Miss Farrow. 

“Do you think it pathetic for a perfectly grown man to cry, Felicity?”

He asked. Fisting his hands into his hair and looking down to the floor as he tried to hold back more tears.

She said nothing. She just crossed to him and placed a hand to his shoulder as his head was bowed, her hands brushing through locks of his thick dark hair before she did. Soothing him. Stroking his head calmly as he had done to her earlier, in the hall. 

Instead of giving him an answer, she did something far more sentimental instead.

She waited until he leaned his head up again.

Then, she leaned forwards, and pressed one single _thankful_ kiss to his warmed cheek. Throwing her arms about his neck, hugging him tight thereafter.

He chuckled in surprise as she did, hugging her back, then he found that she was whispering softly into his ear, a sentence that truly made his heart warm right through.

“I can’t wait for the day when you get to be my big brother-in-law..”

She whispered.

 

He held her tight. Because truth be told, he couldn't wait either...

 

 

~

 

 


	22. ~The Society Letters Of Lady Jane Plidebright~

 

 

Well, to all my dear London reader’s, it seems that there are great happenings afoot with regards to the one young flame haired Miss, Elizabeth Farrow, For she was taken ill after being caught in Hyde Park in a great rainstorm that left her ravaged with a severe cold, and congestion upon her lungs. And it has been said that she was rescued from the foul weather by none other than guess who? Readers? Correct. The ever gallant and handsome Duke of Chatsworth. Sir Thomas Kenworthy.

He apparently, according to the overheard exclamations of one Miss Felicity Farrow, _‘rode through the storm in a manner of a knight on horseback’_ to save her from the unforgiving elements. Which, surely now, is reason enough for him to ask for her hand. This author does not mind letting loose the blatant truth that Marcus Burke has been well and truly beaten to the punch in this respect. And that the ill mannered bore should have made better time of Miss Farrow’s maidenhood whilst he had the chance. What a hero this Duke is turning out to be...

Because, judging by the way the Duke stares with loving intensity at Miss Farrow, their match is of far too an indecent affectionate manner to rescind. Sir Benedict Carlton was overheard, at White’s gambling club, explaining for the loss of his friends absence to the Lord Standerton, by remarking, _‘I gamble, and dine alone this evening, Sir. It appears my former close friend and drinking partner has gone and got caught up in a marriage match…’_ He was claimed to have drawled in that elegantly debutante snatching smirk of his.

Which can only mean one thing, readers, that we must all await, with baited breath for their announcement to appear in the papers. And this author does not mind declaring, that her money runs on it being, one, Sir Thomas Kenworthy, and two, in very near future _indeed_.

 

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 15th ~

 

~

 


	23. Apologies, Lifes Thoughts and Unfortunate Dinner Plans....

 

 

A solemn cloud of grave intensity hung over the Farrow household like storming clouds that evening. Mrs Sharpe and Felicity were present in the room as the doctor examined Elizabeth. Who declared she had a very mild fever, some congestion on her lungs and a concussion. But a few days of bedrest and warmth would see her right. Mrs Sharpe had thanked him, and showed him to the door. Adding further thankfulness that as it was past seven in the evening now, and she was most grateful he had still come to attend to her daughter.

As Araminta and Doctor Kipps exited the room, Felicity had stayed behind, looking at the sleeping form of her big sister.

Her red hair had been washed and dried to keep her warm, and now rested gently either side of her head in tousled bouncy red curls. Mrs Sharpe and Nessie had manoeuvred the slight Miss into a heavy thick nightdress to keep her warm. It was white and ended at her elbows, the neck and arms trimmed with fetching ruffles of thick set lace that made her skin look paler than usual. And because she was so bloodless and lacking in colour from the illness, she practically blended into the bed covers and pillows. Her hair was the only offsetting burst of colour.

Aside from the worrying news the doctor had given them, and Felicity’s horrific flashbacks of the hideous accident, you wouldn’t think there was anything much wrong with Elizabeth Farrow. She just looked like she was deep in the recesses of heavy slumber. Her eyes rested gently shut, long lashes brimming onto her pale peachy soft cheeks, and her perfectly lovely pink lips rested in a earnest line.

Felicity looked down upon her resting sister with tears to her big coppery eyes, making her look alarmingly like a lost puppy who needed rehoming. With infamously sorrowful big watery eyes. Her bottom lip started to wobble as she reached out and took her sister’s left hand, feeling her skin was pleasantly warm, now. And that it was also delectably soft, like silk, and rather instead of limpness, she found her sisters hand twitch slightly as the muscles started to move. Felicity Farrow bit down her shaking bottom lip. She hated crying. She made a point of _only_ crying when it was necessary.

But, all in all, taken into consideration what had transpired that very afternoon, she saw that as such, was a good enough reason to let a couple of tears burst down her cheeks in that moment.

“I’m _so sorry_ , Elizabeth..”

She mumbled sorrowfully just as Mrs Sharpe and Nessie re-entered the room. Felicity’s little plea tugging sharply on both their heartstrings.

“You’re always right. I _hate_ that you’re always right. Except that on this occasion, I don’t. I _like_ that you were right. I shouldn’t have climbed that tree, because if I didn’t then I wouldn’t have slipped, you wouldn’t have rushed to help or aid me, and that branch wouldn’t have done _this_ to you…”

Felicity wailed, kissing her sister’s hand. Looking at the small flowering purple bruise that was etched onto her sister’s hairline to her left temple. Big fat tears running quickly down her cheeks as she spoke. Mrs Sharpe stood morosely behind her youngest, as Nessie fussed with cleaning away utensils from earlier on the far side of Elizabeth’s room, her back to them all. But Mrs Sharpe swore blind she heard the immovable and impassive poker-faced Ladies Maid let out the _slightest_ sniffle.

“Will you _ever_ forgive me, Libby?”

Felicity asked, as she let her Sister’s hand drop sharply down to the bedside as she cupped her hands to her face, and sobbed into her own two palms. Knelt on the carpet by the bed, weeping for things to be alright again. Mrs Sharpe cooed and fussed in her wonderful and ever comforting

“There, There, my Dove. It’ll be alright.”

As she pulled Felicity to her shoulders and patted her back as she hugged the distressed girl.

“Perhaps we should leave your sister to rest now, She might require a bit of peace and quiet? What’s say we go downstairs and ask cook for a little something to aid your cheering? Hmmm?”

Mrs Sharpe asked. Poising them both to walk out of the room, and away down the hallway. Nessie in tow to return some used bowls to the kitchen before Mrs Bartley, the plump ill tempered cook, threw a wobbly at her best dishes being used for something other than jellies or casseroles.

“You’ve let that tiny vexation come into my room again, haven’t you?”

Came a broken, soft, raspy yet wonderfully familiar voice from the bed…

Nessie nearly dropped the bowls to her feet as she grinned wide in utter delight. Mrs Sharpe looked flabbergasted and exultant, and nearly tripped over her youngest step daughter she whipped around so quickly. And Felicity looked like she had seen heaven on earth at hearing the sound of her sister’s voice.

 _“ELIZABETH!!!!”_ Felicity yelled.

She tore across the room and launched herself into her sister’s arms. Who gave nothing but a sleepy smile and a soft chuckle as she felt her little sister squeeze her tight in adoration. Luckily, it was no heavy burden for the ailing Miss Farrow, Felicity was of a waify build, she didn’t weigh much. _Thank goodness_ , on top of quite the _most monstrous_ headache she’d _ever_ had, a sore throat, and a rumbly achy feeling chest, she didn’t think a portly hug from someone who weighed a great deal would really see her right _at all._

“Oh, Elizabeth..”

Mrs Sharpe beamed. Smiling in blissful rapture. Sending her thanks to the heavens, and god only knows where else, that her world had been turned right side up again. It was such a delight to see Libby’s lovely and evermore enchanting blue eyes slither slightly open, to see their wondrous blue depths once more. They were hooded, for sure, the poor gel had every right to be tired. Her smile was one of lazy unguarded unawareness. It was weak, but as such, still managed to make her pleased to see it as such, rather than not at all.

“Would you like to chide me _now_ , or later, Mrs Sharpe?”

Elizabeth croaked. Her arms still about Felicity’s back as she hugged her sister, Felicity turned to grin at Mrs Sharpe like a cheeky little thing she was, staying close to her eldest, managing to look sheepish and hopeful as to avoid a good stern reprimand.

She sighed. deeply. If there was one thing, she was both delighted and vexed again that her wit was not _at all_ afflicted.

“Hmmmmn.”

The elder woman sneered in a manner that could be construed as her holding back all her frazzled ramblings, otherwise known to many other people, in what was known as an unyielding ticking-off

“Later. I should think. Allow time for your wit to no doubt polish and sharpen itself to its usual high and gleaming standards.” Mrs Sharpe smiled.

“Then may I just say, that I am sorry. Mrs Sharpe. I learnt my lesson the hard way today, the lesson being that a mother’s advice should always be attended to.”

Mrs Sharpe sighed through a smile and calmly stepped forwards and squeezed her eldest's left hand.

“Stepmother.” She corrected, patting her hand.

“ _Mother_.”

Libby insisted, voice still raspy. She had made _no mistake’s_ in that regard.

“ _Oh_ , My Dear.”

Araminta smiled, tears of joy rimming her butterscotch coloured eyes. She leaned down to embrace Libby on the head with a singular kiss. When she straightened again, she wiped away her tears of joy, and looked down upon her eldest with eyes filled to the brim with love.

“Come along, then. Nessie, Felicity. We’ll leave the girl to her…rest.”

Mrs Sharpe declared, ushering both women out of the room.

Nessie couldn’t resist trotting quickly over and squeezing her friends hand tight for a second.

“ _So glad you’re alright, Farrow.”_

Nessie cooed in a whisper, seeing Elizabeth’s lips crack into a smile, before she could be speared with one of Araminta’s ‘looks’ for remaining in the room, when she had given her express wishes for no one to remain behind. But. As Nessie shut Libby’s door, leaving her all alone once more, and Felicity, Mrs Sharpe, and Nessie were left in the dark hallway. Mrs Sharpe let loose a big smile that made her seem as sneering as a sly and cunning fox.

“Felicity…”

Mrs Sharpe spoke.

Her youngest turned and gave her a gaze.

“What is it, Mrs Sharpe?”

She asked nicely.

Araminta jerked her head down towards the spare guest room where a certain gentleman had been residing in sorrow.

Felicity giggled with glee before she bounded down the landing, her neat little treads not making a noise on the carpets as she came to the door.

 

 

~

 

Sir Thomas was still awake. And he didn’t think anything in the world would tempt him to fall into a inviting bout of sleep. He was still in the place where Felicity found him earlier, slumped into the armchair, which was pulled to the fire. And he had busied himself staring deep into the flames to whittle away the time.

Mrs Sharpe had informed him dinner was to be at the usual time of seven thirty, and it was just coming up to seven ow. It wasn’t quite dark out. But it wasn’t day either. It was lingering awkwardly on the fringes, _waiting_.

 _Much like himself_ , he supposed wryly and with little humour.

A brittle yet sharp knock to the door pulls him away from his thoughts. He sighs. He really should open it himself this time, It was only polite. So he did. He eased himself onto his slightly aching knees, and when he got to the door, twisted the doorknob and braced it open, listening to the wood creak.

He could see now that Felicity stood the other side.

And she was grinning like a fool.

“Felicity?” He asked

She smiled wider.

“I think there's someone who’d quite like to see you Sir Thomas..” she giggled.

He frowned. And then his eyes shot so wide, Felicity noted his eyebrows nearly touched to his dark hairline.

“ _Elizabeth._ ” He whispered.

Felicity liked to think she was an agile creature who could move with impressive speed and finesse. But as it was when a six foot four muscled man launched himself into her path and out down the hallway to her sisters room, it was all she could do not to be stampeded under his booted feet as he broke into a striding sprint.

He came to a stuttering stop seeing Nessie and Mrs Sharpe grinning amused grins at him from the landing. He pulled his feet to a shaky stop before he ploughed them down like they were two skittles and he were a bowling ball.

“She's _?... Is.. she?_ She _is?.._. _May I_?”

He asked, pointing to the door, having just fallen over his feet, he was now falling over his own words.

“I don’t think we’re in any position to try and _stop_ you, Sir Thomas. By all means.”

Mrs Sharpe beamed, lifting her skirts and descending down the staircase with an omnipotent, all knowing and all seeing, leer aimed his way. Nessie followed after the lady of the house, as Felicity skipped after them both.

“He _better bloomin’ marry_ her.” Nessie grinned.

“I think he’d propose today, if she wasn’t _so_ inclined to faint.” Felicity predicted.

“You two, _hush now_.”

Mrs Sharpe admonished. Smiling, quite certain that the Duke could hear them.

“I wish to hear none of either of your silly predictions. They will engage when the time is right.” She insisted.

“Which would be?” Nessie asked.

“Sometime next Saturday, by my guess.” Mrs Sharpe nodded.

“ _Hypocrite_.”

Felicity muttered not so quietly under her breath.

Sir Thomas grinned idly at them all, dragging a hand through his hair, and steadying his nerves before he grabbed the door handle and twisted, pushing it open. Stepping inside.

Elizabeth turned to look at him as he did. He could see a small purple bruise and a little slash of a cut where the branch had broken her skin. Her eyes, though hooded and tired, sparkled with joviality on seeing him. and her smile stretched wide into a grin that he loved being the cause of. And forever wanted to be the reason for that smile for the rest of his years life would grant him. She was dressed now in a white laced nightgown that made her look both humble and a creature of such pure and simple beauty. She didn’t need gowns and cosmetics to make her beautiful, no. Everything that was beautiful about her was _enhanced_ by all her finery. Seeing her clad in just a nightgown made him want to spend every morning possible waking up and seeing the sight of her in it. It made her look homely, and for him to want to start producing _their large_ family right away, scores and scores of children, so they too could all have night gowns such as hers, and leap into bed, waking up their parents on some lazy Sunday morning. He could see it now, they would have her mad curly hair, and his daggering blue eyes. And they’d have a whole gang of them so not one of them _ever_ felt lonely.

“ _Elizabeth..”_

He breathed softly in relief, yet with hot urgency as he crossed to her side and took her hands into his own. Raining multiple kisses down on her pale warmed hands. Eyes closed in thankful happy rapture. Feeling her hand against his mouth and being so grateful to it.

He sat himself at the edge of her bed. Closing his eyes in blissful relief as he kissed her. So thankful to whomever it was that meant she would be alright after all. He didn’t know who to thank first, the queen, the queens mother, god, the good grace of Felicity Farrow, the cheekiest pest in all of London. Or the spider in his bathroom… To all of them he sent a silent prayer of thanks…

Her heart leapt at the sensation his lips caused when they met her skin.

Oh, my darling. Please never put me through something like that again. I was in mortal terror with the threat of loosing you.”

He rambled, cupping her face in his large smooth hands.

Elizabeth could not stem the big fat tears that sprung from her eyes as she smiled through her sobbing, and her own hands reached up to gently encircle his own.

“Never again, I promise.” She wailed.

One hand left hers and cupped the side of her face, smoothing over her warm pale cheek. Her blue eyes watching as he shook his head slightly, tears rimming his eyes as he took in the sight of her wonderful smile again.

“I love you my darling, I love you so much…”

He rambled before he pulled her close and gently but quickly moulded her lips to his own. Giving her a kiss that left her lungs air starved.

“I love you too, Thomas.” She grinned. “More than I could ever say.”

“Don’t say it then.” He offered.

“But spend the rest of your life _showing_ me _how much_ you love me, instead.” He insisted.

“Far more romantic…” She added. Sniffing through happy tears.

“You can also show me by agreeing to be my wife..”

He suggested with a serious yet smiling expression. His tone so jovial it made her heart all warm and squirmy.

“..As if I could _ever_ disagree to that..” She smiled.

He beamed at her.

“I cannot wait to marry you, Elizabeth Farrow. And because of such, I shall ask your father’s permission for your hand, tomorrow.” He ordered.

“Tomorrow?” She croaked in beaming surprise.

“I’ll be damned if I have to wait an _hour_ longer…” He added lustily.

“Are you going to be quite this doggedly stubborn all throughout our married life?” She asked wittily.

“You can count on it.”

He offered seriously, grinning as he tucked a bouncy red curl back behind her ear as it had come loose.

“I shall insist upon, _hmmm,_ now let me see, I should think, _fifty_ kisses _each day_ from my wife….” He thought aloud.

“Then _fifty_ you _shall get_.”

She beamed. Loving how he was being deadly serious yet japing at the same time.

She assured him. her hand finally taking a path she had itched to take since she first laid eyes on him. Carting up over his smooth jaw, following the sharpened line of his cheekbone with her fingertip, seeing it made him grin.

“I should think so. As a landed gentleman, _and_ a _titled_ one at that. You should know I am _ever so used_ to getting my own way. In _all affairs_ …”

He warned with a sinners smile, his eyes burning into her own.

Elizabeth's stomach was doing wildly skilled somersaults in her body as she realised he was leaning in to embrace her again. Smile and eyes brimming with dark pleasurable intent.

“..Especially when it comes to matters regarding my future wife…” He whispered before he pulled her closer to meet his lips.

“Than I shall indulge you on that too.”

She offered after he pulled away, his gravelly moan making her pant as he gruffed into their kiss.

“you had better, Mrs Kenworthy.” He winked.

“Any other orders I must adhere to as your wife?”

She enquired. Sighing sleepily as her arms linked about his neck, his rested at her clothed waist. His eyes hungrily surveying her lovely lips, that would soon be all his to kiss for eternity.

“We are going to have a veritable army of children.” He insisted.

She swallowed at that, and at the heated look in his blue eyes. Children meant that they would have to… _Oh_ , and an _army of children_ , that would require an awful lot of…… _Oh heavens.._

He smiled seeing her blush in nervousness.

“Which means I will keep you _very busy_ , and _very pleasured_ _all_ night, and _every_ night…Long into the small hours.” He assured her.

Her throat was trying to swallow itself, she decided. Mainly because his lips had swerved to her neck, and was making her spine thrash in rockets of pleasure as he whispered his promise into the sensitive skin below her ear. His hot breath making her shiver in what she could recognise as desire.

“Oh…” She stuttered. Again.

“Don’t be nervous my darling. After I take _great delight_ in showing you what man and wife get up to in the marital bed, you shall have _no_ reservations, whatsoever, upon the matter.” He offered.

She knew she _shouldn’t be_ , but her curiosity was _really rather piqued_ by what would happen when she belonged to him in the eyes of God and England, and in matrimonial vows. Especially when it came to baby-making. She had suffered through the talk with Mrs Sharpe when she was 17. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why Araminta had _blushed_ as such. But now she knew, because she had warned her that a man’s carnal desire could be overpowering. And now, as Sir Thomas stared at her with such vigorously passionate intent, only know did she _understand_ what she had meant.

“Will…Will I, Will _I like it_?” She found herself asking.

Thomas nearly chuckled into her neck with lustful disbelief. She _was_ a pure innocent after all. He had never indulged in sex either in his long life, but atleast he _knew_ that he would give her such powerful sexual bliss, she would instantly remark she regretted that silly statement….

“Do you like it when I do, _this,_ Elizabeth?”

He asked, purring hotly as he swept one kiss from her neck, leading down to where it joined her shoulder. His lips felt hot, and the way his breath brushed her skin, she felt as if there were gale force winds of hot delight running under her skin. Travelling and ploughing powerfully through every vein.

She gasped, also noticing how his hand brushed softly her waist through her gown, his hands felt hot, and skilled. And she _liked_ it _so very much_. Her brain informed her.

“Y-Yes, I do.” She groaned.

“Then you’ll utterly _love_ what I do to you in our bed as man and wife.” He insisted.

Her mouth felt dry, she swallowed to return some much needed moisture to her woolly tongue.

“Back to the number of children we are to produce..”

She asked. Should she let _her, or his_ desire swell any further, and she’d fear that said love-making could commence _at any second._

_They were in her bed chamber after all… both sat in her bed, of all things… It would so easy to just, shut the door, and simply…..indulge themselves in ....the act...._

He chuckled, his fingertips brushing over the curled coil of her lovely red hair. He pulled back from her neck to better take in the sight of her lovely flushed cheeks, and lust blown blue eyes that he had been the cause of.

“They’d have your _lovely_ red hair.”

“I hoped they would get _your_ eyes.” She offered shyly.

He smiled.

“They would be lucky children to be bestowed with your lovely smile. And I can think of _no other_ worthy woman to be their mother, than you. You will be the _most fine_ mother to our children, Elizabeth.”

“As would you.” She beheld. “You would, _and will,_ make such a loving father, Thomas.”

“…. I cannot wait to bare the title of doting and wildly affectionate husband _to you_ , and loving father to _all_ of _our_ children.” He offered.

She beamed.

“A girl or a boy?” She asked.

“ _Two. Of each_. So they’d _never_ be lonely.” He insisted.

She chuckled. Somehow her brain told her to be nervous of that number of babies. But as long as they were hers and his, she didn’t care one jot for nervousness.

“You do realise, that Felicity would be a rotten aunt to them.”

She remarked. “And Mrs Sharpe and My father would be fiercely devoted Grandparents..”

“Then, we’ll have to _train_ Felicity…” Thomas offered.

“Heavens. Now _that_ makes her sound like an animal..” Elizabeth contested.

“I hate to relay this, but you did call her a _Gnat_ upon the night first I met you, Miss Farrow.” He chided. Reminding her.

She laughed _so hard_ at that.

“That is because I pride my senses on being so _rightly_ level headed and correct.” She insisted.

He chuckled at her. _He would not have a boring wife,_ he supposed. _Thank god and earth for that…_

“..And may I press one final order of business, upon you, my dearest, sweetest, darling Elizabeth?”

He asked like a true gentleman, letting her silky hair float through his fingers, which acted like a comb as he gazed lovingly down upon her.

“You most certainly may.” She grinned.

“Will you accompany me to the Opera Friday night? If your health and Mrs Sharpe permits? La Travierta is playing at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, one of my favourite opera’s, I took the liberty of procuring my usual box, when I come to town. So your family may like to attend also, and your best friend, Miss Violet, may come if she wishes…”

Elizabeth smiled.

“That is most kind, Sir Thomas, I would adore it. I’m sure Violet will not pass up the opportunity. She doesn’t mind opera’s, yet she always told me she found them to be a ‘yawn’ sometimes. I myself am an utter romantic, I enjoy them all. Whereas when we last took Violet, she fell asleep on my shoulder as I sat enraptured by the performance.” She admitted.

Sir Thomas laughed.

“I have also asked Benedict if he should like to attend, he is an operatic fan. Much to the distress of _my ears_ ….” He offered.

She frowned in confusion, but she was still smiling.

“I don’t understand..”

“-He sings in the bath.” Thomas winced dryly.

She laughed at that too. He loved her laugh. She just found that image  _too_ hilarious to comprehend.

“… Violet sounds delightful however, I cannot wait to get better acquainted with her, she sounds like quite a character to my ears.” He grinned.

“Yes, I _do adore_ her.”

She smiled, fiddling with her hands. Liking that he was so generous and kind as to want to get to know her nearest and dearest friends and family.

“…And Elizabeth?....” He asked.

“Yes?” She answered, curious.

“I think you can dispense with the title of ‘Sir’ Thomas. Just my name will do. Even though the notion of your calling me Sir’ brings to mind a _most lovely_ image of your obedient submission, I think as I’m soon to make title of your husband, that it had better be shortened. Don’t you? Or people will perceive I keep you on a lead…”

He grinned, eyes doing that hot shining gaze they always did to her to make her truly weak.

“ _No man_ could keep me chained and obedient.”

She flared dangerously, with a smile.

Dammit all to hell, wanted to show her _there and then_ what love-making was due to _her words…_

“Another thing about you that I love.”

He admired. Looking at her like a lovesick fool.

She grinned.

“I wager our marriage will be an interesting one..” She thought aloud.

“Are we going to fight over books?” He smiled

“Of course. And, we shall bicker like mad over art…” She mused.

“Who gets the last slice of treacle tart at dinner..” He added.

“You’ll be aggrieved to know I will always win that argument. It is my favourite desert.” She growled tersely.

He laughed in surrender. Her feistiness _firing_ his blood.

“We shall also fight over who steals all the bedclothes...”

“Well. That will be won by me, at the hands of my ardent desire to see you _unclothed in bed_.”

He offered, one wry arched brow curving up his forehead, making him look sinfully handsome.

She smiled, blushing.

“Anyway. I hate to say it. I loathe to part with you. But Mrs Sharpe was _most insistent_ at my joining your family for dinner.”

He exclaimed, not wanting to tear himself away from her as he stood.

She folded her hands on her lap.

“She’s forcing you to stay the night, isn’t she?” She asked.

He smiled, chuckling.

“Oh, you poor man.”

She cooed, tittering as he got to her bedroom door, ready to slip back out of it.

“Well. I bestow the best of luck upon you, Thomas. For dining with my family. I have a feeling you’ll need it in abundance.” She smiled.

“So kind, my lady.” He winked before he disappeared.

Elizabeth was left smiling and happy. _So very happy._

~


	24. Library's, Love's, and Want of Protection...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gets a bit steamy in places, and ends in an engagement.... enjoy

   

 

~ The Farrow's Townhouse Library ~

 

 

It was noon the next day, when Sir Thomas decided he wanted to enclose himself in the refuge that a good book could often grant him, therefore he stole himself away to the Library for a few hours of peace with his own thoughts. He had dressed today in his black breeches, and boots. Along with his white cotton shirt, and midnight blue waistcoat, swirled with black velvet paisley patterns. As he was a little warmed, he had rolled his sleeves up as he pawed through the various books before him. His mind free to wander as a consequence...

Dinner the previous evening had been a most pleasant one, despite Elizabeth bestowing her all knowing opinion that he would need luck in spades to sit down for a meal with her family. Notwithstanding her warning, as soon as he eased himself into the Dining chair opposite Felicity at the table, with Mr Farrow and Mrs Sharpe sat either end, And as they all started to converse over a lovely course of garlic and mushroom soup, Sir Thomas left the dining table that night knowing very well that he wanted to marry into this vibrant and lively family.

Mrs Sharpe, he discovered, had once been an avid singer, and in her youth, had performed at a respectable gaiety with her troupe of young ladies before she quit to travel abroad, having lived in Paris for three years. He learned that despite his love for Mathematics, and calculated order of equations which he studied, he had, in his younger years, (to which Mrs Sharpe butted in, and interjected a correction of ‘his _much much_ younger years’.. To which Thomas chuckled…He loved that they were a family whom could jape with one another) Thomas learned that Sir Richard Farrow had taken into serious consideration after finishing University, to become a painter. Romanticist of course, but his Strict Father had insisted he pursue other careers, a painter had _‘very little to live on but his love for art’_ , he had said. Quoting his own Father. Sir Thomas had smiled, and remarked back, ‘ _But what a passion filled life that would be..’_ and to which Sir Richard laughed, and declared he was quite right.

Then they moved onto Felicity, who rabbited on about some nonsense regarding her friends, and some paltry shreds of gossip. But then, as the conversation sailed elsewhere, he found that Miss Farrow the youngest, had a deep desire to become a Barrister. To which Sir Richard choked as he nearly ingested his soup spoon, he took breath in so deep, but at his wifes look, thought to accelerate his laughing fit into a coughing one. But, Mrs Sharpe could not plead simple ignorance, she too had looked a _tad aghast_ as soon as the statement had cruised its way out of Felicity’s lips. Sir Thomas chuckled, and stated that her imprudent and fierce tongue would make her a most suitable clerk to the courts. At the pleased look on her face, Mrs Sharpe could not then point out that women were not yet allowed to work in the courts, but, she couldn’t suffocate the joy that Sir Thomas’s words and beliefs had caused her youngest.

They had talked, laughed, conversed and babbled the night away, right through starters, mains and puddings. Still they sat, talking most avidly, until The Lady of the house, declared her nerves were frail from the days events, and Sir Richard eased up to help his wife above stairs. Sir Thomas had rose to his feet also, and as he was a gentleman, tucked Felicity’s hand into his elbow, and declared in a silly posh voice that he simply must escort her to the safety above stairs. To which she had giggled and laughed, letting herself grow ever the more fonder of this man. They swapped – genteel – jokes as they made their coupled way above stairs. Felicity noted that he paused when he saw Elizabeth’s door. Biting down his bottom lip in trepadition. Felicity grinned, he was a gentleman, he couldn’t preval himselfupon a maiden’s bedchambers in such an eager manner. But Felicity could.

She slid silently through the door before Thomas could stop her. The both of them seeing that her elder sister had fallen deep into slumber. The firelight’s amber glow the only thing lighting up her dark room now. He swallowed down any hint of protest at seeing the love of his life, as her face was peacefully rested in sleep. Her cheeks and full lips tinted soft and supple from the kiss of the ochre coppery hued fires glow. Her coiled hair fanned about her on the pillow, and one arm rested up across the pillow opposite her head. She looked contented, and so very lovely.

Felicity had braced her back up against Elizabeth’s bedroom door, and with that cheeky smile of hers. Urged him in with a tilt of her head.

He swallowed, Felicity had to tug him in by the arm.

“She’s sleeping…”

He fought.

“A _most astute_ observation, your Lordship…” Felicity barked out dryly.

“You sound suspiciously like that _gnat_ your sister spoke of Miss Farrow…”

He awarded her.

“We _both_ know you wanted to bid her goodnight…”

Felicity grinned.

He hated that she was _partially_ and entirely right.

“Pest.”

He grinned seeing she wrinkled her face up into a funny one, he eventually found the courage to move past her now and cross to the bed. Bracing his form softly down on her mattress, trying no to let it dip too much under his weight, and wake her, leaning over to brush one curled knuckle down her soft cheek in the sweetest gesture. And then, he couldn’t help it. He smiled. He adored the sight of her that much, he couldn’t _not_ smile at his _soon-to-be_ Elizabeth.

He leaned over, and pressed a kind kiss to her forehead. Feeling she was perfectly warmed now, that soothed his worries.

“Goodnight, My Darling…”

He cooed gently.

Felicity watched with an eager beam on her face. Thomas loved her sister in a way she had never seen before, save for fanciful fairy tales or the heroes who appear in penny novelettes. She liked that he was eventually going to be her big brother. She’d want no one else for Elizabeth now she met him. She decided with a fierce determination, that she would protect their love with her last breath, should it come to that. They’d have a most exultant marriage indeed, when they were wed.

“You Love her something _wicked_..”

Felicity whispered.

Sir Thomas turned and grinned to the younger Farrow miss.

“That I do, Felicity. I cannot deny it, especially _not to_ _you_.”

He granted, rising from his beloved’s bed, and walking noiselessly across the room, ushering her out with a hand pressed to her back.

“Promise me one thing, Sir Thomas?”

Felicity asked as they came to her bedroom door.

“Which would be?”

Thomas asked.

“Can I spend my summers with you newly weds in Derbyshire?”

She asked cheekily.

 _Because it just wouldn’t be Felicity Farrow if it wasn’t cheeky,_ he thought.

He chuckled, mussing up her hair as he ruffled her head.

“We’ll see, _pest_.”

He grinned.

“Bed now…”

He ordered.

“… And just when I thought you were fun…”

She mocked, sliding into her dark bedroom with that mischievous grin to her lips.

He walked to his room with a smile and a chuckle. And he slept that night, better than he had in years.

He thought back over his night, as he slid a copy of the Picture of Dorian Gray back onto the shelf. His eyes sliding over all the packed titles around him that all clamoured for his praising attentions. He turned his back to them, looking to the opposite bookshelf. Eyes drinking in the titles that the new shelf offered to him. They kept a good book selection, he had also learned the previous night, that it was in fact, as Sir Richard had told him, Elizabeth had cultivated most of it. Forever was she trawling bookshops and buying the odd book here and there, almost every day since she was 13. She was bringing books she had purchased back to the house, sometimes stacks and stacks of them. And after a while, she built up quite a hefty library. Mrs Sharpe had exclaimed with a heavy heart and a belated sigh, that the ‘ _gel was an unfortunate victim of books_.’ Sir Thomas had laughed and inwardly disagreed with the elder woman. _She was a happy victim, who wanted nor needed no form of rehabilitation from her addiction,_ he thought.

There then came a soft little knock to the Library door. He thought perhaps Sir Richard had returned from his trip to the Royal Imperial College, he had stated at breakfast he had a long lecture to attend that morning. It was his study contained within the library after all. Sir Thomas had expressed the fear that he would feel he would be intruding. Sir Richard had waved his hand and declared his notion _utter nonsense_. ‘ _Books’,_ he said, _‘were made to be read, and Libraries were made to be lived in.’_ And so, here he was. Elizabeth had not been at breaksfast, Mrs Sharpe had declared she decided the _gel_ needed some rest. Sir Thomas had wholly agreed.

“Come in..”

He called to whomever it was at the door. Looking back down to his hands, as he slid another title that didn’t capture his avid attention, back onto the shelf. He felt a little uneased that he was giving permission to someone else, in their own home.

Then he looked up to the doorway, to see that quite the loveliest creature in all of christendom now filled and darkened the space with her lithe little frame.

His heart instantly stuttered into fuzzy feeling warmth in his chest on seeing her. She looked much stronger, and had substantially more rosy colour to her pale cheeks than she had yesterday. And the way she moved told him that she was not rendered weak by yesterdays events now she had gotten some much needed rest. He swallowed in nervous worry as to his overwhelming desire for the woman, and because she was clothed in less than he had _ever_ seen her. Not indecently though, he knew Elizabeth Farrow far better than that to know she would never clad herself in indecent attire for him.

She was sporting a simple white underdress, it looked almost like a nightdress, but it was made of thick pure white cotton. She had on no corset or bustling silk overskirts like he usually saw her clad in. This dress was as simple she could allow for, whilst still remaining decent. He could see the true curve of her hips, and the unhindered shape of her heavy bust that he thought no corset did her figure justice for, she didn’t need it, she was so shapely in her own way. The cut of the dress wasn’t indecent either, it clung in all the right places, he thought. And the neckline was modest, showing him the delectable build of her collarbone and decolletage it was done up with a small little white bow at the valley of her breasts.

Linked back across her arms, of which her hands cradled a small cup and saucer of steaming hot tea, she had a tartan shawl thrown about her shoulders, looping down over her back, the sides tucked into her elbows. Her hair was unbound too, much like the night of the masquerade ball, it was let loose in rich coiled waves of red hot fire locks that tumbled from her head, cascadng down her back. Making her look untamed, yet so beautiful in almost _every sense_ he could think of.

“Mrs Sharpe informed me I’d find you in here…”

She spoke gently with a smile, gliding into the room. Passing by the sun drenched window that threw a square of light onto her frame as she passes it by. To Thomas, there is no better sight than seeing the suns light tangle itself in amongst her red locks, making them blaze like fire coloured gold in the shaft of light. And her skin too, he noted, transformed under the sunlight, looking peachy soft with a glow to it, that left him without breath. She looked downwards as she placed the swirling steaming tea cup of tea down on the desk by he window. Throwing herself into the light that made her look like an _angel_ to his eyes. _His_ angel.

Without tearing his eyes off of her, he slid the book back onto the shelf where he had found it.Sir Thomas blake would have to wait. He wanted to kiss this ravishing woman senseless.

“She also ordered me to bring you a cup of tea. Because, _‘Heaven forfend we can’t have someone as titled as a Duke in our home and not serve him tea’_ …”

She explained, mimicking Mrs Sharpe’s voice, rather correctly, he thought, she stood the tea down, and turning to face him. Seeing he looked very much in love, and happy as he gazed upon her. Awake and well once more.

“How do you fare today, my dear?”

He asked her kindly.

“Rather better than yesterday. I apologise for my lack of elegant dress, but If I lace my body into another corset with my lungs in the state they are in, I fear they’ll burst..”

She explained, laughing in unease, placing a hand to her ribs as she smiled gently.

He slunk across the room to her, silencing her polite pleas by tucking her lithe frame into his muscled, much taller, and much stronger one.

“You needn’t apologise.”

He assured her, smiling down at this overwhelmingly beautiful creature who was dressed perfectly enough for him. No matter what she wore.

“You look beautiful in whatever garment you clothe yourself in, Elizabeth…”

He smiled down to her, his right hand cupping through the back of her red hair to hold the back of her head, lovingly, cradling her in his arms in a way that he wanted to do for the rest of their eternity together.

“What if I choose to take up wearing, potato sacks, what shall you have to say then?”

She grinned. Looking cheeky and impish in a manner akin to that of her sister.

 _Oh,_ She truly must have been _very well_ recovered for her wit to return to her, in it’s most sparkling form. _Sir Thomas thought._

He chuckled.

“Even if such a time falls upon us, I shall still insist that you are the loveliest woman to grace this planet…”

He held firm.

“I _can’t_ sway you? Can I?”

She asked, through a chortle of laughter, feeling as he twirled an absent curl of her hair about his finger, looking down at her in ardent rapture.

“I’m afraid not, dearest Elizabeth…”

He assured her.

That was when his eyes slid down from lovingly scrutinizing her beautifully pretty hair, to then rest a bit further south. Seeing that she had yellowing bruises beginning to darken on her neck. His brows pulled too, there were a _lot_ of them. They reached from the left side of her neck, in strokes, and apppeared in the same manner on the right aswell. It looked almost like someones hand had been wrapped there, and that, made his blood boil.

“Elizabeth. About those bruises on your neck…”

He began in a low voice, moving her curtain of red hair back out of the way. The japing and sensualness that had been present between them a moment ago, had vanished now. He _had_ to know who had done this to her. There was no questions about that. _He had to know_. _Now._ And whomsoever had done it to her, they had the arrogant audacity to think they could get away unscathed from attacking her… From attacking _His_ , Miss Farrow.

Thomas saw red.

Elizabeth sighed, downcasting her eyes, and shrinking away from him, pulling the shawl tighter about her shoulders as if it were a shield. Her hand nervously tipped a finger to the marks in question, of which he spoke so angrily of.

“Elizabeth. If someone has hurt you, please, share with me who. Preferably so I can _tear_ their head from their wretched shoulders…”

He growled.

She stalked quickly over to the window, away from him, not looking at him. Wrapping her arms and her blanket about her even more. So she was cocooned up against the awful, dirty sensations that washed over her when she thought back to Marcus Burke assualting her in that dark hallway, on the night of the masquerade ball.

She’d been a fool, she thought she could wrap herself up in a scarf and just try to _forget them_. So that no one but _her_ would have seen them, but apparently she was wrong.

She heard him pad across the carpet, his hands soothing down her upper arms to turn her to him. His eyes were soft, and pleading. And his face was empathetic and gentle. Kindly coaxing the information from her reluctant position.

“Libby. My darling, _please_ … I _cannot stand_ the thought that someone has caused you harm, and that I was not there to defend you from it…”

He urged with gentle passion and pleading in his husk of a broken voice

Her afraid blue eyes met his.

“It was Marcus Burke…”

She gave out. Feeling like she wanted to scrub her skin away again. It was illogical, she knew, She didn’t know that it was about that man, but now, the thought of him made her want to bleach away any faint and distant trace of him from her persons.

She watched as Thomas’s whole face deformed into one of _pure_ rage.

His eyes went, _hot_ , if that made any sense. Like they would turn anything he so much as looked at, to ashes. They looked deadly enough, but the rest of his face contorted too. His jaw, she could see, was clenched stiff and he panted like a rabid dog through his anger. As it was, his mind was so clouded with the want to _kill_ the man, if at all possible, he wanted to go about that by overturning all the courts in the land and have him _flogged_ , and his brain buzzing away with other homicidal wishes in odes to the beastly lout. That he can only manage to grind out _one_ word in response.

“ _When?_ ”

He snarled, biting off his words, and still looking like a rabid wolf.

She blinked her pretty, and somewhat more relieved, blue eyes up at him. Placing her hand on the bare patch of his lower arm, as his sleeves were rolled up, in attempts to try and ground him from his _wrath._

It didn’t matter in what context she touched him, skin on skin contact still managed to send his skin into thrashes of hot yearning.

“After you and I parted at Lady Hartwright’s ball…” She informed him.

His face dropped.

“In the garden’s?”

He asked with horror. Because if he had unknowingly led her path into Burkes by sheer want of needing to have her alone, Then _he_ was in fact, the one to blame for her assualt. And he would drop to his knees right there and then, and sob through his clamouring her her forgiveness.

Mercifully though, he watched as she shook her head.

“No. Do you remember after we, _left_ each other’s company, that my hair was somewhat mussed, so I went to go and find a powder room to fix it?”

She asked.

He nodded, as he swallowed, his nature looking somewhat calmer now.

“Well. I was just heading back into the ballroom, off a quiet hallway, when Burke accosted me. He..”

She spoke, fidgeting. Feeling that filthy sweep of wrongness rock her to her core at remembering what he had done to her. She shuddered and winced at the memory of it all.

“… He pinned me to the wall by my neck, holding my throat. That’s… _why_ I got..the bruises…”

She explained in nervous stops and starts.

What he did next, made her want to burst into nothing but a ball of fire and _lust._

He slowly tilted his head, taking her right arm into his hold, gently wrapping his fingers about her arm, and pulling her so she was pressed right up close to him. Gushing out a shaky pant, growing quite hot as he leered close over her, towering above her, his mouth was a straight line that gave nothing away. But his eyes looked like they wanted to caress over every perfect bare inch of her yet undiscovered, _naked_ , skin. She watched in tembling anticipation as he slowly curled his front, right up to her chest with no space to spare. And then, ever so gently, and slowly, lowered his head to place the softest pucker of a kiss against her neck, where the bruises sat.

The touch sent thrashes to jolt lustfully through her entire being. And her spine warcked with pleasure as her head tilted off to the side at the sensation of his lips, hot and searching, sweeping across her throat. Placing puckers of kisses to all the marks that _animal_ had left upon her.

“No man should _ever dare_ touch you in violence, Elizabeth. Because should someone ever risk placing their hands on you and vicious intent again, I will make sure they are six feet deep by the time I am done with them. _No man_ is going to be left alive, if he slights, **_my_** _,_ Libby...”

He growled her in assurance in a hot whisper into her neck. Panting as he kissed her sweet tasting and wonderfully _hot_ , supple skin. Flushed from the heat of his beath as he felt her pulse hammer under his lips as he pressed them against her once more. He hears her breath is nothing now but a shaky pant bursting forth from her deliciously full lips, as she is, once again, left unable to believe how he could cause her such wanton desire with just his words, and his lips.

His hands then moved to her back, sliding down until he cupped her squeezable ass through her thin skirts, into both of his hands. Pressing her tight up against him as her hands clasped helplessly to his chest, her neck tilted back to look at his absolutely scorching blue eyes, and his deadly intentful, _most melting_ , smile. Elizabeth could barely breathe now, she kept swallowing and sucking in air, but it would not come. This was too sensual, nearly. She could feel every inch of his hot body pressed to her. He was so hard, sure, and resolute against her soft, pliant and apprehensive form.

He was starting to pant now too, because this woman _, Oh, and she was_ **his** _woman at that too_ , she was soft and delicate under his touch. And turning more and _more erotic_ under his ardent touch by the second, and she didn’t even _know_ it. And he could not forget, no matter _how hard_ he tried, that she was wearing something which allowed him such sinfully easy access to her ravishingly beautiful body. And as he had wanted her undressed since the very second he laid eyes on her, his mind points out that this, was such a perfect moment and opportunity for him not to _seize_ it.

“We are quite alone, Elizabeth. May I be so inclined to point out….”

He rasped, his hips brushed forwards into her body, making her gasp at the sensations that overtook her. She didn’t know, _what,_ she wanted, exactly. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew she wanted to arch and _open_ her form for him. She wanted no obstacle standing in the way of, whatever, it was he wanted to do to her - _Oh, god, he was turning her quite wicked._ That much she was certain of.

She swallowed, fighting all her senses and lust in order to respond.

“I am, _so, awfully_ aware of that fact..”

What she didn’t say, but which followed her words like a silent sentence that her body was speaking, was;

_“And I know I should care about that, but I don’t. Not one little tiny, bitty, bit”_

She hushed, groaning loud as his hand skimmed up the back of the curve of her neck, sliding into her hair and cupping her head so he could easily now lean an inch forwards and seal his hot wet mouth against her own. His other still grabbing her bottom in a way that made her feel so wanton. He was now moaning into her mouth as he stole all of what was left of her reasonable thought, with his lips. Kissing her so ferociously, she forgot how to _stand._

But she could feel his hand was caressing her, not just gripping her. Her was smoothing and curling the weight of her under his hands. Making sure to weild his touch against her, to make her pant into his own mouth as he touched her in such a delicious way. Her hands finally found a wicked position of their own, her left, she still kept clasped, hooking her fingers over his shoulder, and her right tangled into the inky dark locks of silky tresses at the back of his head. Scraping her fingers through his scalp as she moaned through bliss, the action making him shudder against her. She didn’t even know how she was able to erode his resolve, and make him want her more. Yet, she did. She possessed the power to, unknowingly.

He adored that she had such a powerful hold over him, as the one that he held, over her.

“ _Oh, Elizabeth_ …”

He purred against her neck, there would be _no easily_ hiding his arousal now. It strained painfully against the bond of his breeches, pressing into her.

“..My, sweet, darling, Elizabeth…”

He drawled as his head deffered attention from her lips to her throat, his scorching breath warmed her neck, making her skin flush delicately, as she dropped her head far back on her shoulder’s and sighed. Arching her back, curving herself into this man, who would soon be her husband. She felt on of his fingers lazily trail down her collarbone, blazing a trail of fire across her skin where he touched, making her convulse into both raging desire and all consuming weakness.

Her body had taken over her actions now. And it had decided it was _desperate, and melting_ for him. She couldn’t stop thinking about her desire, and how she just wanted to curl up against this man, and let him _have his way_ with her. To cause _such hot pleasure_ to her like this, and to let him do everything he wanted that made her eyes flutter closed in euphoric rapture, and her body go completely silly for his touch. To make her gasp, sigh, groan and moan for him. For whatever her wanted to do to her, or with her first. Her body didn’t care. It only knew it wanted _him, and no other._

What’s more, he made her body feel _beautiful,_ too. All her life, she had grown up hating her podgy figure. Hating how her breasts were large, and served no functional purpose. And that her bottom was fat and too wide to be deemed acceptable by Victorian standards, as was the case for her thick tree trunk- esque thighs. She hated also, how some men stared at her breasts, and whistled at her if they’d had too much to drink. Seeming to think she was fruit ripe for their picking. And that their malodorous attentions to her figure would ever win her over to them, in their favour. But Thomas, _Why,_ he had made her feel _sinfully beautiful_ , like some virile fertility _goddess_ , under his touch. He made her _love_ her body. Because he had shown her how much _he loved_ it too.

Because he was doing that to her _right_ now. In the way his hands mapped out her hot, needy body. His lips sliding down further, to tantalise her collarbone so that prickles of warmth shot through every one of nerves. He smiled against her lower neck, where the column of the lovely thing joined to the juncture of her shoulder. He could feel her knees _shaking_ and _trembling_ against his own. Struggling to hold her body up as he plucked her apart.

He smirked against her neck.

“Are you feeling a little, _exposed,_ my sweet?”

He asked her. He was encouraging her desire out of her, which was something she had _never_ experienced before him. She would most likely be overwhelmed at the sensations that gripped her. Not able to restrain her desire once he unleashed it, he rather _adored_ that thought.

A shaky gasp was to be her answer as it turned out, because his hands then swept her frame into his arms. One cupping her backside, and the other crossing her back to haul her close into his body. He plucked her effortlessly off her feet, carrying her across the room, skirting around a leather backed armchair, and throwing their bodies down lengthways on the large cushioned chaise lounge. This was a perfect loaction for pleasuring her, he noted. The high lip of the back of the sofa, meant that they were completely shielded from view to anyone who came in the room. _Perfect_. He grinned.

Elizabeth laughed shakily as he threw her back down on to the red velvet futon, her hair fanning out from above her head like a cresting blanketed wave of red coils. Scattering pillows to the floor under his wake, so he could have more room to move around and _love_ this woman. He noticed the shawl wasn’t wrapped about her shoulder’s anymore, peering over the sofa, he saw that it lay snaked across the floor. It must’ve slid from her as he hoisted her up into his hold.

He looked savagely down at this enticing creature that he now had _pinned under_ him, she was looking up at him with those big beautiful eyes, her full lips parted as she eagerly awaited his next move as he slowly _drunk_ the sight of her in. Little did she know, his next move would leave her breathless for an entirely different reason…

Somehow, and she’s not entirely sure, _quite how_ , But his hand managed to sneak _under_ her hem, he watched smiling, as she gasped at this, her dainty slipper sliding off her foot to drop, un-needed, to the floor below where her leg dangled off the chaise. He led it thud to the floor, forgotten. She bit her lips as she felt his warm, smooth hand glide softly up her calf, finding a ticklish and tender spot to the back of her knee. Which makes her gasp, much louder than she had done before.

His eyes tore themselves away from the sight of her body that he was exposing more of, and met her eyes in such a sizzling glare, she was afraid of what it did to her. He was smirking too, not arrogantly to her mind, but just enough of his flawless smile to let her know that he was about to _thoroughly enjoy_ what he did to her, as was she.

“You have _no_ idea how much I’m going to love you, Elizabeth..”

He smiled lovingly, his blue eyes clouded over like an overcast sky, with nothing but hot desire.

They both watched as his hand slid ever further up her smooth leg, His fingers moving to feather gently against the inside of her pale creamy thigh now, pushing her dress higher and higher as he went. His eyes unable to _not_ stare her body down. Every _inch_ of this woman was _gorgeous._ The skin of her legs was as pale and as smooth as a vat of cream. He couldn’t resist her like this, clambering down to the floor, to lean still over her body, he kept her skirts pinned were they were, and gently leaned forwards to place hot kisses to the place just above her knee, where it was not quite her kneecap, but not quite her thigh either. It rested somewhere inbetween.

“Come to think of it, from the _enticing_ way you look, fanned out below me, I don’t see how we can _possibly not_ have lot’s and lot’s of children…”

He assured her, his voice no more than a dark, desirous husk of its former self. Peering up at her from his vantage point, knelt on one knee at the floor, below her.

“ _Oh, my dear_ , Thomas..” She groaned.

“If this is what desire is, I will give you as many children as I am able…”

She cooed, throwing her head back, smiling and mewling in pleasure as his finger dipped further up her thigh. Nearly reaching what lay at the top of it.

“ _This is, desire_. Elizabeth.” He awarded her.

He leaned forwards to kiss further up her pale thigh now, inching higher yet again.

“ _This is_ passion..”

He kissed again.

“And Lust…”

He rasped.

Again, there came a kiss.

 _He would running out of thigh now, surely_. She thought.

“And Love..”

He cooed, rasping into her leg still, after one more kiss.

“This is _definitely,_ Love..” He confirmed.

“But as far as desire goes on my behalf, I can safely boast that when we get back to Chatsworth, my love, I don’t think I’ll let you _out of bed_..”

He lusted, scraping his teeth into the fray in a kiss that felt naughty, biting up against the crease where her thigh met her hip, feeling her silk chemise that she had on under the thick dress. If she had been standing, then her knees, at _those_ words and _his actions,_ she was sure, they would have _buckled._

“And when we are in that bed, dear heart. Shall I disclose to you the _very first thing_ that I’m going to _do_ to you?” He asked.

She nodded, _unable not too._

“I’m going to kiss you…”

He answered her, lowering his lips again to smack a kiss at the hot crease his fingers just fluttered over. He _loved_ havingher vulnerable in lust like this for him. The heat of her on his hand was _astonishing_. His lips, she was cursing. _They were more wickedly good than his fingers,_ she thought.

“I bet you are now wondering _where_ I shall kiss you…”

He asked her.

Words were beyond her right now, so he skipped over her answer to give her his conclusion right away.

He slid up over her body again. Capturing her blue eyes in his own fiery gaze once more, before she heard him rasp in a voice so lustful, she nearly _melts._

“I’ll start by _kissing these_ lovely, soft, gorgeous lips…”

He told her, so very hungrily.

Leaning close to her, he tilted his chin, cupping her neck as he slanted his mouth onto her own, eyes meeting her own until he got close enough to kiss her passionately. Causing her to sigh onto his tongue, as his mouth molded onto hers, stoking fire deep In her gut for him. She nearly whines as he pulls away with a soft smacking sound hitting the air around them as his lips leave her own. Sh efelt chilled when he pulled away from her. Damn near missing him, something _mad._

He then, after pulling up and away, sat back and surveyed her, making sure she watched as his fingers pinched the gap of her gown where down it gaped over the valley of her breasts, and he gave a sharp tug down, exposing more of her bosom than he had ever seen before, but still keeping her modestly presentable.

“And _here,_ I should think. I’ll be sure _not to forget_ to _kiss you here too…”_

He spoke, wetting his lips.

She watched as now he bowed that dark head of silky ink tresses to place his lips onto the side of her lusciously soft breast. Kissing up over the curve of her. Making her chest swell and rise with her desirous breath from what he was doing. His mouth latched onto the side of her, and sucked, which made her throw her body up into his own, arching her back so high, he could wrap his arm under her, as his mouth slid further across, coming to the centre of her breast.

“I’ll _definitely_ be devoting a great portion of my day to kissing _these_ …”

He snarled lovingly.

After he spoke, not wanting to be relenting on her pleasure, which was proven as he took her dusky little pink nipple, sucking it into his hot wet mouth. Hearing as she keened and cried out against him now. Her back arching so far up into him, she was nearly bent in two. He felt her fingers latch deep into his hair, tugging back, raking her nails through his hair in a way that made him growl, and suck _harder,_ and _deeper._

His other hand, his left, _she thinks, her brain has gone so inexhaustively funny she’s can’t even remember her own middle name, let alone which of his hands was caressing her now_ , but she feels as it then goes to wrap about her soft fleshy thigh. Tucking her leg up to better curl her body into his own, he was still so hard and all hot skin and muscle pressed down against her. It felt wonderful. He felt so male, and she, had never felt so feminine, or _treasured_ , in all of her life.

“But. My dear. There is _one_ place left, where I am going to be kissing you, _a lot_. Most frequently. Almost _every day_ , If you’ll permit me…”

He explained, raspily.

Then he chuckled, _darkly._

The sound making pleasure _dance_ across her body in crests.

“Well. I dare to estimate that once I _do kiss you_ in _this place_ I speak of, I shan’t require you to permit me to go _back_ there again. I should think your own desire will always _ensure_ my return…”

He explained, leaning further down the sofa, pinning her dress up, just so, over her hips with his hands.

Elizabeth bridled against his hold..

“Thomas, you don’t mean-…”

She began in shaky disbelief that came out more as a squeak, but it appears, her words would go left unanswered

Because he then leaned down, and she saw that dark head bow to kiss sweetly at the very _centre_ of her. Kissing across her hot cleft that sat between her thighs. His hot wet tongue was so devious as to curl against her velvet folds.

Elizabeth’s bucking body nearly threw him from the sofa, her hands curled deep into the red velvet, nearly ripping through the fabric. And, all too soon, and without showing her what she needed. He pulled away, pressing endearing little kisses to the insides of her hot thighs.

“ _Oh, my sweet girl_ , You taste like _heaven_..”

He growled to her thigh.

Her answer was a gasping moan, throwing her head back, eyes fluttered closed in utter pleasure, and still raging desire.

But she didn’t have long to savour the gap in his pleasures, because she then felt his front press to hers again, and he curls up into _his_ Elizabeth once more. His wonderfully skilled mouth latching onto the side of her neck, smiling into her throat as he kissed her.

“You do not know how badly I wished I possessed _all the time_ in the world to map out your enticing wetness with my tongue, my dear. But _someone_ could _stumble_ in on us at _any moment_ … and what a _scandal that_ would cause. Me dipping my head between your lovely thighs to lap at you. So. Instead, I shall have to go about giving you your pleasure in a far more _discreet_ way..”

He whispered huskily into her ear. Making her shiver against him, as she then felt his fingers flutter, curling and dipping into her moist centre. She could feel only one at first, but after a moment, a second joined the first, coaxing her to open for him.

That made her arch into him all over again, as he chuckled down her ear, the sound firing pleasure all down each one of her limbs. _How could it feel this good?_ She thought idly.

And he knew he wasn’t going to stop until she had jerked, shuddered, and convulsed into her climax, right here in his arms. Floating back down from the high of the release he would grant her.

“Would I had the time. I’d lick you right here…”

He explained. Moving his two fingers, sliding out of her to tease along the outer side of her folds.

“..And then lick _here_ …”

He offered, repeating the same teasing caress the other side.

“And then, I’m going to go here…”

He clarified. His fingers finding and tantalizingly rubbing over the little senstive pearl that sat right at her centre.

She almost screams his name.

But listened eagerly as his mouth sealed, hot and scorching breath flushing against her lobe as he spoke. Pressing hard into her as she groaned his name.

“I’d _lick that_ , too.”

He husked.

Elizabeth was floating away to heaven. She was sure of it.

“But, you even that may not be enough for you, my sweet. You’re a discerning woman. You may make me work _, hard_ , for your pleasure….”

He spoke teasingly, his hand doing a delicious pattern of rubbing over her sensitive core, and dipping into her wet centre. It was her panting and aching for him. Wanting, _something_ , wanting something so very, _unutterably, badly._ Yet she didn’t know what it was. It was _torture…_

 _“Oh,_ I could never do that, Thomas…”

She whispered gently, in reverant tones.

He chuckled, again.

that dark throaty sound which made her feel infinately satisfied and alive, leapt to her ears and pleasured her further. Just as much as the feel of his fingers curling _ever deeper_ inside her.

“It pleases me to no end to know that you will be an amiable woman to my lust, Elizabeth. But know this, I vow to never take my pleasure before yours once we are married. If I bed you, my sweet, I bed you to sate _both_ of our lustful needs, not just my own…”

He assured her.

She sighed, groaning as she bucked again.

“Can you feel yourself grow close, my dear?”

He asked her

“I, don’t, .. I’m not…”

She wavered, because she _didn’t_ know what she was. She didn’t know what to expect, or what even, it was that she wanted. All she knew was, that there was an ache, uncoling inside her. A _good_ ache, a _very good feeling_ ache, and his fingers made her feel _right_ in the way they explored her, and urged her into a weaker state. Making the ache less and less tolerable..

“Let go, Elizabeth, just let yourself go…”

He instructed. Now he was whispering gently against her ear, lulling her into soothing rythmn with his voice, and fingers. His pressure was just enough to make sense to her.

“..And know this, it will be my name you’ll be calling through pleasure like this for the rest of your life. Our passions are _entwined_ , Elizabeth. I’m making you _mine_ …”

He hushed against her ear, gently kissing it.

She wasn’t certain if she let go or not. But something inside of her, because of his fingers, simply fell apart. And it felt like _bliss_. She clung one arm about his waistcoated back, and the other curled into the cushion of the chaise. Holding onto him for all in her life that she held dear as her face creased into a soundless cry of ecstasy as she shattered over his fingers. Panting through her pleasure.

His mouth was at her neck in an instant, nibbling little kisses down onto her skin, listening to her sigh as he redeposited her skirts back down over her knees, stroking his hands down her sides, picking stray coils of mussed hair off her face. Soothing her, as she needed to be soothed. Ignoring his own needs, above her own.

“You’re _so beautiful,_ my darling..”

He hushed, seeing as she smiled. He then began kissing down her neck softly, not wantingly.

He was midway through gently kissing her clavicle when he heard her speak again. Her voice a shaken little gasp due to the pleasure he had made rocket through her not seconds previously.

“This doesn’t compromise our marriage? Does it Thomas?”

She asked with hooded sleepy eyes, and a lazy smile on her lips.

“ _God, no._ ”

He rumbled lowly, had she been looking at him right then, he would have been able to seduce her with the look in his eyes, and that _alone._

“If anything, Elizabeth. It makes me want to marry you, all the more…”

He grinned.

She swallowed, allowing her eyes to rest gently shut. _They’d have to work,_ he thought ardently _, to build up her stamina in the bed chamber_. This only being her first climax, he’d have to ensure she could endure it, _three or four more times_ when they were happily married as eager newlyweds.

“Good…”

She hushed, her voice drifting away into regions resembling rest and peace.

He folded his body near to hers, sliding down by her side, making sure to tuck her weary frame into his own. Making her tilt sideways into his chest as he held her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. Hearing she mumbled sleepily, and happily, because of it. They lay, entwined as one body, under a patch of warm sunlight that was thrown on them both from the large window across the room.

It turned Elizabeth’s hair into fire gold, like earlier, making her supple skin, ethereal to his eyes. And Thomas too, was transformed under the unforgiving beam of light. His dark hair had slithers of light tangling through it, like shining dark obsidian. And his blue eyes glowed like sapphire flaxen as he smiled dreamily down at his one true love.

“I will _always love_ you, Sir Thomas Kenworthy..”

She mumbled lowly. So low, in fact, that he _almost_ missed it.

But he didn’t, and he _smiled_ at her for it.

“.. And I _will always_ be _madly_ in love with you, and always be there to protect you, Elizabeth Farrow.”

He spoke to her, as he too, shut his eyes as he slumped against her. The both of them sailing away to to a gentle, peaceful rest. Hearts soothed in love for one another.

 

 

~

 

 


	25. Hands in Marriage, Mother's in Law, and Merry Sister's...

 

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth awoke, a long amount of time later she was sure, instantly plunged into the most heavenly sense of disposition, when she recalled the lovely feeling of a warm heavy weight of a man’s solid body pressed to her back, the heat of him scorching her through their layers of clothes. But this is not a surprise, as they both dozed away to slumber in a patch of sunlight that flooded into the library, focusing it’s sunny clutches on the chaise where they both lay.

A smile was the first thing that instantly leapt to her lips. She could feel his warm smooth hand ghost down her side, grazing so slightly gently from her rounded hip, stroking up over her waist, dipping low in the curves and peaks of her body, feeling unhindered the blissful climes and dips that formed up this beautiful woman who lay dozing in front of him. Her lovely red hair fanned out on the pillow by her head like the cresting waves of the red sea. He had spent the time they were slumbering together, with his nose nuzzled into the side of her neck, breathing in her perfumed skin, and the musk of her hair. Relaxing into the best afternoons slumber he’s ever had. He vowed could spend the rest of his life sleeping ever so soundly if she were in his bed beside him every night, because just breathing in the scent of Elizabeth, made his body unwind into peaceful tranquillity. He would have such a nature of peace about him if she married him, all owed to a lifetime of decent sleep if she were the woman sleeping next to him. He watched his hand roam up and skim over her shoulder, mapping along the hollows of her collarbone that the sunlight framed so prettily, so much so, he yearned to lean forwards and press his lips to the crook of her there, swallowing up the rays of light with his mouth as he kissed her pale, light framed skin. He blinked, shuffling his chin closer to where it lay rested on his hand, his elbow holding his chin up, wisps of his inky hair swinging into the sight of his blue eyes as he caressed over the heavenly body of his lover who was curled up into him, sleeping soundlessly. He was visually unable to take in all of her beauty as she slept beside him.

She looked angelic, and he wouldn’t mind declaring that to her either, the way the light toyed with her hair. Igniting into spun flame, and he could not tell whether or not he preferred it highlighted by the sun, blazing it’s ochre redness into coils of eye catching beauty, or whether he liked it best when the light of the full moon shone off of it, gently sloping it’s white light all across the radiant curtain of soft red curls, making her look akin to a goddess in a pre Raphaelite painting. Malformed in the light to become a untouchable deity to his eyes. Her pale skin was also made look all the more fine by the light of the day. Like an ivory skinned porcelain doll, but even he knew she was not made of such inconsequential fragile china, she was full to the brim with passion and love, for so many things, him included, that it made him chuckle inwardly to himself. She was lively when it came to music and the arts, she adored Jenny Lind, Adelian Patti, and Nellie Melba, the three most talented soprano ladies of the Victorian age. Aswell as Michael Balfe, the famous composer. She avidly pursued 19th Century Operatics, and Concerts. Living in London, of course, meant she had the majority of seeing such talented ladies, tread the boards in their performances at many London Theatres. She was also – if he remembered correctly from Mrs Sharpe's insistence, most accomplished at playing the pianoforte – and Thomas knew she adored art too, and was a skilled painter, and drawer. Felicity had remarked with jealously how Elizabeth had drawn a portrait of her, and eventually got so fed up with Felicity’s fidgeting that she gave up hope in being able to finish it, quoting Leonardo da Vinci in claiming that ‘Art is never finished, only abandoned’ What had irked the younger Farrow Miss, was that Libby’s own portraiture of her sister, was remarkably skilful, whereas when Felicity attempted one of her own, Mrs Sharpe had declared that it looked like she had drawn a donkey. He could just imagine Elizabeth taking that comment with a pinch of salt, rolling those big blue eyes and laying a compliment on Mrs Sharpe through gritted teeth at being compared to a buck toothed barnyard animal. And it was a good thing she was skilled at art, because she enjoyed classical art too, Her father had informed him at dinner last night, that she spent so much time at the National Portrait Gallery, they should name a wing after her. For she always put a spare farthing in the donation box when she went. She liked Brown, and adored Rossetti, but Millais was her favourite. In her own words, she became _‘atremble’_ and _‘quivering’_ when she stood in front of his paintings, able to sit and stare at their beauty for hours on end. She avidly pursued the artists whom all included themselves in the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with a keen longing. Part of him cursed himself at this point, he had wanted to take her for a cultural museum visit before they were engaged and married. Alas, he would have to remember to bring her back on a visit to London after she was his wife, and watch her enamoured in from of such classical artworks then. And he couldn’t wait either. She was radiant when she expressed passion for the things she loved. Especially when she exclaimed it about him. That was something he could not live without.

His hand reached up further, his curled knuckle brushing across the smooth silk of her cheek. Feeling the supple warmth of her, watching as her eyes stirred under her closed lids, rolling about as he caressed her into consciousness. She began to stir lightly, blue eyes gently drifting open to find him gazing softly at her, with glittering love in his eyes. She blinked lazily a couple of times, her eyes growing accustomed to the light, her hand reaching up to brush against his arm of the hand that was so lovingly stroking her skin.

“You slumbered for over an hour, my sweet..”

He hushed softly to her. His voice a husky cooing lull of which it’s velvety tones was more comforting to her than the sound of any lullaby. The sun’s warming patch of light had shifted almost away from them both now.

“I’ve never slept so soundly in all my life..” She awarded sleepily. Mumbling her words through a contented smile.

“I’m glad to hear it…”

He drawled back, his voice gruff and deep from his own slumber, his hand came up to brush against a loose curl of fabulously coppery hair that lolloped against her forehead, tangling in her blue eyes. She gazed up at him lovingly. Overjoyed that he was here.

“Thomas..”

She began, causing his eyes to search out and find her own. Urging her onwards with her speech.

“I am sorry I tried to conceal the bruises from you. I feel rather foolish for it now..” She rewarded with a sheepish gaze that didn’t meet his eyes head on, she fidgeted nervously with her hands.

“None of that, my dear. I know you concealed them so as not to wish me upset. But let’s not speak of that now. Let not that animal ruin the precious moment’s we have together..”

He spoke kindly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. One hand cupped to the back of her neck, the other sliding to tuck under her petite waist. Curling her form closer to him.

“The fact I am sorry still remains..”

She whispered, her resolve to apologise melting away, as her eyes flutter shut when she realises his lips were leaning closer down over her, his strong jaw brushing the side of her cheek as his scorching breath met her ear and made her nerves thrash with pleasant tingling all over her. Never mind Rossetti making her _atremble,_ and _quivering_ , this man here could render her just as such just by being close to her. Holding her in his arms.

“My lover does talk so when I’m trying to kiss her..”

He whispers huskily into her ear. His smile wider than that of the Cheshire cat as his lips inched further forwards and placed a long slow and deep kiss to the ticklish skin of hers just below her ear. He fought not to growl a low wanting moan into her ear as he heard her breath skittishly escape her lips as she trembled in passion. He saw that pretty flush spread all across her chest and neck below him, and her rapid breaths making her wonderful breast’s heave upwards under her gown.

“Thomas..”

She groans, wantonly..

He has to kiss her again, after that, he _cannot help_ it. He is irresistibly drawn to this lustful creature mewling his name under him. He wants this happenstance occurring for every single day for the rest of his time upon this earth. His lips claim a spot further up the side of her pale throat, as his hands lift her dainty form up, so they are pressed chest to chest now, squeezed close to one another, his hips undulate into her body, one hand leaves her back and slides her thigh up to curl across his hip, so he can continue pressing himself close and take her breath away all at the same time. Feeling her petite little strong hands comb down the back of his waistcoat. Clawing at his back with passion.

He pulls his head up to survey her beautiful face, taking her cheek now in his hand. Watching with tenderness how her usually pale cheeks were flushed, and how those big blue doe eyes, now full of lust, glittered back up as she smiled back to him. The love and sexual want so thick in the air about them, they could have put a knife through it.

“I’m destined to be the luckiest man on this earth when you are my wife, Elizabeth..” He hushes softly. Tucking a wild coil back from her pink heated cheeks.

“And I am destined to be the most fortunate wife ever to walk this planet to gain a husband such as you…”

She flattered back, her fingers gently ghosting down his arm.

He smiles. Her flattery could render him just as stupid, as his did to her.

It was at this point that they both heard a commotion echo out in the hallway, both hearing the harsh slam of the front door, indicating that Richard Farrow had returned. And the faint mumbling that both they picked up was undoubtedly Hawkin’s attending to Sir Farrow’s coat and hat. Just outside the library door, where Thomas and Elizabeth were engaged in a most sordid position. They instantly both bolted to their feet, Thomas crossing quickly to the window, snatching Elizabeth’s throw from where it lay snaked on the floor, handing it gently back to her. She had just finished linking the thing back across her shoulders when the doorknob twisted from the other side, and the door was pushed inwards.

Elizabeth and Thomas both twisted their heads to the doorway to see the wise frame of her father darkening the space of the frame. Dressed today in a grey coat, a peacock blue waistcoat, with a darker blue cravat knotted about his neck. On his feet he wore bowler shoes and heavy grey tweed trousers. He had his battered leather briefcase in his hand. Stamped with his initials. The customary sight of his half moon spectacles hung in their usual place off his nose. And he smiled his old weathered smile at the two occupants of his library. And Sir Richard was no fool, he could see he had disturbed something between the two. Be it a conversation, or something perhaps a little intimate, perhaps a passionate embrace, they both looked a tad flustered and flushed. His eyes twinkled with intelligence upon the sordid matter. They were harming no one, and they undoubtedly had strong affection for one another, and he was a man of such honour there was no doubt as to him asking for his daughters hand. Matter of fact, in his mind, Richard wagered the age was too strict upon the wild clamouring's of young impassioned lovers.

“Afternoon Elizabeth, Sir Thomas..” He greeted.

“I shan’t disturb you both...I’ll leave you shortly I just came in to leave my briefcase to my desk..”

He assured them, crossing to the large desk and shuffling a few papers onto it.

“Good Afternoon Papa..”

Elizabeth spoke back.

“I see you two made good use of our library?”

He offered with an omnipotent smile.

“Yes. Thankyou for your kindness sir, in allowing me to browse your books.. You have such a delightful library amassed here..”

Sir Thomas spoke nicely, hands resting restlessly by his sides. Sir Richard could tell, the man looked like he wanted to burst, there were more words lingering on his lips to be said.

“All due to my eldest, Sir Thomas. I assure you of that...”

He spoke, winking to Libby, who smiled. He carried on.

“….Until the happy day of my retirement comes, I find I haven’t a spare hour in the day for leisurely reading..”

He awarded.

“Quite..”

Sir Thomas acknowledged in a smile. Biting off his words in squirming nervousness.

Before he blinked, taking a deep, brave, steadying breath, gathering his courage, and marching right up to the other side of Sir Richard’s desk.

“Sir. I do have a matter of some delicacy which I intend to discuss with you..”

He said strongly. Face impassive, but gentle. A mask of serious ferocity crossing his usually placid features.

Richard blinked up at the man through his spectacles, blue eyes blinking wide, hoping that he knew already with some assurance where this conversation was headed. He raised his head and regarded the man.

Elizabeth’s stomach was performing acrobatic tricks in her torso. That much she was sure of. She exhaled a nervous yet excited gush of breath. _Knowing exactly_ what his intentions were..

“Do go on sir…”

Sir Farrow smiled.

His eyes flickered off to his daughter.

“You wish to remain here for this?” He asked her.

She wasn’t sure if she nodded, or smiled, or died of blissful rapture. But she is vaguely aware of letting words cross her lips.

“It is a little Unorthodox perhaps, father. But with respect, I am a little nonconformist myself as you know, and as such, I wish to remain in the room.”

She finally insisted.

Sir Richard chuckled.

“Oh, how well I know that my dear. And how well I adore it of you..”

He complimented.

She smiled. Happily.

Sir Thomas swallowed, smiling at the pair of them.

“Pray do carry on sir.. I fear we interrupted you..”

Sir Richard offered with a wave of his hand.

The smile that crossed Thomas’s lips was the most wonderful thing ether of the Farrow’s had ever seen. His eyes glittered, and he was left looking like the most enraptured man on earth.

“I wish to secure your consent, sir, with regards to having your daughter Elizabeth’s hand in marriage…”

He... _finally..._ asked.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, her body singing with too potent and powerful joy. She could barely contain it. But for a stupid wide grin splitting her lips. What he said next though, truly made her _melt._

“I love her, Sir. My love for her knows no limitations. I adore her. And I would very much like to make her my wife, and to give her everything she ever desires in her life. A home, a happy marriage, a family. I hope I am a worthy suitor to deserve her. I have thought this over in much detail, I grant you, and Am perfectly willing to do whatever I must to secure her affections, If I do not have your approval..” He rambled respectfully.

Sir Richard chuckled. Throwing his head back.

“If…”

He chuckled louder.

“If…my dear boy..”

He laughed.

“Sir Thomas. I whole heartedly give you my unyielding consent. With exultations and Rejoicing I give you my consent to marry my daughter.”

He smiled, his eyes looking a tad watery with delight.

Thomas’s smile burst into a laugh.

Sir Richard rose to his feet, coming to stand opposite the man, their heights much the same as he clasped his hand and shook it with such warm vigour.

“I prayed from the moment you saw one another, that eventually your lives would begin together in this happy way in marriage..” He offered. “May I wish you both joy..” He exclaimed.

“Oh, Father...”

Elizabeth cried, rising to her feet and rounding the sofa, overjoyed tears leaking from her eyes, as she crossed to her father and enveloped him in the strongest hug she had ever given. Her father chuckled as his hands came about her back, he kissed to the top of her head before she pulled away and he took her hands in his own, and squeezed them tight.

“I cannot fathom that any one man can manage to deserve you, my dear Libby. But it appears that I am to be truly and _greatly_ countermanded…”

He chuckled happily.

He blinked away a tear. She smiled widely at him with affection. It was always raw to see a parent reduced to tears.

“I am very happy for you my dear. Knowing that you have found the love of your life. I don’t believe there is a greater elation than for a father to know his daughter had found her one true love, and her contentment. And I pray one day, when you bare children of your own. You get to know this exultation as I do… You are _so worthy_ of such bliss and goodness, my dear Elizabeth.. Never accept for one moment that you are not… If only your mother were here for this my dear girl, why, she’d be as thrilled as I am for you marrying this fine man..”

He granted. Gently taking his daughters damp cheek in his bony, smooth wrinkled old hand. Watching her big blue jewel sapphire eyes blink away the tears of rapture. They burst down over her pale cheeks, drooping across the corner of her stunning smile.

“And pray be sure to know, my dear. That I could not part with you to anyone less deserving of you.” He spoke gently with loving encouragement.

“He is a most fine man, Papa. Perhaps the finest I have ever had the pleasure to meet. There isn’t one day to come in my life where I shan’t be overbearingly happy, if I am by his side as his wife.” She awarded.

“I’m sure of that. You merit no lesser treatment my dearest..” He offered.

She smiled.

Sir Thomas stood, Elizabeth with his back to him, before she turned from her Father and caught his eyes.

He beamed at her. Both hers, and Sir Richard’s kind words, why they rendered him so stupidly happy he dared not exclaim it.

“I do not wish to hear your wage per annum sir, nor will I delve into the particulars of your prospects and affairs, as damned bloody society and propriety dictates I must. I will ask one, and only one favour of you, Thomas..”

Sir Richard ordered.

“ _Anything_ , Sir.”

Thomas adhered sincerely.

“Pray do not ferret her away to Chatsworth and never let us see her again. She is the only person in this house with a great modicum of sense and intelligence. And as such, I fear in her absence, the silliness of her sister, and the daftness of her Stepmother would render me quite barking mad. For the sake of my sanity, pray allow her to visit us every so often.. Lest parting with her should lead me to the looney bins of the nearest asylum…” He warned seriously.

Sir Thomas laughed.

“She may see you whenever she chooses to, I shall not prohibit nor hinder in her comings and goings to London for anything in the world… be rest assured, Sir Richard..” He promised.

“I can die a satisfied Parent...” Richard beamed.

“Elizabeth..”

He spoke, as she turned back to her father.

“You may go to your fiancé my dear..”

He spoke, letting go of her hands, proverbially handing over to her betrothed. Elizabeth slid her hands out of her fathers after a hand crushing squeeze, meeting her beloveds eyes, she then quickly crossed the distance to Sir Thomas and collapsed with a contented sigh into his arms, close to his chest. He wrapped himself around her in a body encompassing hug. Breathing in deep the scent of her that enveloped him when she came close. Lillie's and Honey. The scent that calmed him, the scent that warmed him. The scent that was so wholly his fiancé that it made him smile, exhilarated, and warmed right through all at once. It made him think of her hot flushed skin, and the sweet sight of her breath-taking smile.

Elizabeth sighed in utter content, happily letting herself be held, and hold this wonderful man with whom she could share the happy remainder of the rest of her life.

When they pulled back, Thomas gazed lovingly into her eyes, taking her cheek in his hand, pulling her close to press a tender kiss to the centre of her forehead. Thanking whatever lord presided in the heavens for bringing him the heavenly creature that was Miss Elizabeth Violet Farrow. Soon to be _his_ Duchess of Chatsworth, Mrs Elizabeth Kenworthy.

Before he could usher his love to her in soft reverent tones, They barely registered that Sir Richard smiled at them before he slid out of the room. Presumably to go and fetch the rest of the family to tell them the happy news.

He brushed his calloused thumb across Libby’s full lips. So wishing he bore all the time in the world to kiss her senseless.

“I am only sorry I don’t have a engagement ring pretty enough to christen this lovely hand with…”

He spoke in disapproval and irritation at his own lapse in procuring one for her. His smooth hand sliding down to stroke gently the ring finger that he would fill when he found the most appropriately beautiful ring to rival her beauty. She deserved not a _thing_ less.

“I don’t need it. And right now, I’m in such bliss that I don’t care one bit.. I didn’t marry you for jewels and titles. Thomas..”

She cried happily. Cupping the side of his carved face in her hand.

“I know my love.”

He explained, smiling in utter bliss. They wanted each other for who they were as whole people. He wanted her for her divine passions for music and arts, for her beautiful smile, and laughter. And for the fact that she was so curious, so spirited and so wholly lovely, it should have been impossible. They were saints who were not as kind as she. And she, why, how could she ever refuse the man who saved her? body, mind and soul. Saved her from a violent man, an insufferable life, and a doomed marriage. The man who had showed her what _true_ passion was. And whom gave her all indication that he wanted her, for _exactly_ the way she was. The man who bought her books, and penned her Shakespearian sonnets from the depths of his kind heart, and whose kisses and smile left her silly. She loved Sir Thomas because he was a such a decent, good and honest man, and he lavished her with love and praise that she was sure she did not deserve, but what's more, he made her truly believe in those _lovely_ little moments when he kissed her neck, or nuzzled into her hair, that she deserved every good thing he could give her. Gifts, pleasure, laughter, intelligent conversation or any such thing otherwise. She warranted _it all_ , his loveliest dearest Elizabeth.

From somewhere far off In the house, the both of them suddenly heard a loud hooting noise. Both causing them to frown at each other, before they both heard a large crash, followed by several more large crashes as things were undeniably being broken in the wake of this elated shrieking, and a succession of loud cooing noises worming it’s strident and screeching way through the house, getting closer and ever closer still to the library.

Before they both nodded with realisation at each other. Looking deep into each others eyes as they both spoke, in unison.

“Mrs Sharpe..”

They nodded in agreement, laughing thereafter. She could feel the laughter bubbling through him, escaping from his mouth in a husky chuckle, and hers was that light airy laugh that sounded like a sirens song to his ears.

They had all but a seconds peace before the library door slammed wide open, and the plump and short form of Araminta Sharpe-Farrow stood before them, eyes wide and wild with gleeful joy and surprise, and her mouth gaped as she struggled to comprehend the news that had clearly just been offloaded onto her ears. Clearly the cause of the ear-splitting squawks that rang through the large townhouse. Clearly, Thomas noted, a match making mama’s one true goal of getting her daughter married off, was cause enough for the woman to make noises that he was sure people in France would start complaining at the volume of, if they weren’t careful.

“ _OH! OH, MY DARLING’S!! ENGAGED!!!! OHHHHHHHH, MY ELIZABETH, TO BE MARRIED! OH MY LITTLE GIRL!_ ”

She bawled, crossing the room, her stout size jiggling like a plate of jelly as she sprinted to Elizabeth, who met her stepmother as she came to grasp her daughters hands and kiss both her cheeks. Happily flapping and flitting about her, caressing her cheeks.

“I knew you could not be so angelically beautiful for nothing, you gorgeous girl! Oh, I hope with all my heart you will let me help you with wedding plans! OH! the announcement. RICHARD! RICHARD! PRAY ATTEND ME AT ONCE! WE NEED TO ANNOUNCE THEM! SEND WORD RIGHT AWAY TO THE TIMES NEWSPAPER!!”

She threw over her shoulder to her husband who crossed back into the room, wincing audibly and visually at the deafening and vociferous piercing shrieks of his wife.

“Yes, my dear..”

He awarded her, in too much of a great ecstatic mood to deny her.

“..Although I don’t think I need send word, nor announce them for that matter, You’re doing a grand job of it yourself darling, shout a little louder if you would, then we needn’t bother writing to tell our relatives in Scotland..”

He winced, rubbing his aching ears, yet being so good as to award her as he crossed to his desk and sat down to start penning his words at her boisterously blaring insistence.

“… OH! And we must get your properly attired! For I will not have you go all the way to Derbyshire to live as a DUCHESS in scrappy old rags. WE MUST ring for Lady Buchannan to attire you right away! She will have he work cut out this time, for we must also commission your wedding dress, my dear..” She rambled.

Libby laid a hand on Mrs Sharpe's own as she rabbited on and on like a loose lipped madwoman.

“All in good time, Mrs Sharpe. I promise you…” She grinned. “Let us grow accustomed to the news first of all…”

“ _Oh, my_ dear..”

She cried emotionally, dabbing at her cheeks with a daisy embroidered lace trimmed hankie, swirled with her initials.

“I am very contented so see you so ecstatic, Mrs Sharpe..” Libby spoke kindly.

“You will be a very happy woman, and such a beautiful wife. And the quite loveliest mother, too, I venture …” She offered, winking, turning her attentions to Sir Thomas now, instead.

Sir Richard, unbeknownst to his wife, rolled his eyes out of sight at that. _They’d only been engaged two seconds and already Araminta was selecting baby names for heavens sake..._

Libby blushed a little at that. Thomas’s hand squeezed her waist out of sight at that. Silently agreeing with his mother in law.

“Oh, and _you sir_ , you are truly a part of our humble little family now. I pray you may call me Araminta if you so wish. And I wish you and my dear _dear darling_ daughter all the joy in the world. And I thank the lord as man as handsome and kind as you lay claim to her. I don’t know where we’d be without you. Good Sir. I am the most lucky mother in all of Britain to have you for a son-in-law” She offered, nearly curtseying to Thomas in front of the enamoured couple.

“You are too kind, Ma'am. Really.” He smiled.

“I am only sorry you now have her unyieldingly inappropriate wit to contend with..”

Mrs Sharpe added in a teasing footnote. Causing Libby to roll those big blue eyes off to one side. She had delivered three compliments all in under a minute, there was bound to be a catch with Araminta. She should have known that.

“Quite the loveliest wit I have ever come across, Mrs Sharpe. I hasten to add. I shall not have a dull wife on my hands. I dare lay claim to the accusation that I have the most beautiful catch of the season on my arm. And I will bare her proudly. Wit, stubbornness, bookish nature, feistiness and all.”

He spoke, lovingly dissecting his future wife with absolute love in his eyes.

Araminta covered the place where her heart lay with her hand, truly touched by how much this man adored her stepdaughter. Know she knew what the expression _‘with all my heart’_ really truly meant.

“Before I forget, Mrs Sharpe, Sir Richard. I know not if you care for the opera, but usually when I come to town I procure my usual box at the Royal Opera House, and I recently discovered that La Travierta is playing this coming Friday Eve, and I wondered if yourselves, Felicity, and Elizabeth should like to attend with me? I would adore your company. Sir Carlton has confirmed his attendance too, I also extended the invite to Miss Violet Burchrowe too if she cares for it..” He explained in his gentle voice, with his kindest smile.

“That is most kind, Thomas, we should adore to accept.” Mrs Sharpe cooed. Folding her hands in front of her.

“Excellent-“

Thomas began, but he was rather cut of by a high pitched squeal that rang through the house, like the deafening cry of a raucous seagull. All four of them winced at the pitch and sharp note which all hit their ears very ill, _indeed._

And such a feminine scream of such a manner could only belong to one occupant of the house…

“Brace yourselves..”

Sir Richard warned as thundering little treads barrelled down the stairs, dainty petite feet slapping the floor until another waify figure half filled the doorway to Sir Richard’s study. And Felicity Farrow skidded to an ungraceful and wildly un-feminine stop, blundering into the room, launching her body forwards and nearly toppling over her own feet. Nessie, and Hawkins also appeared in the hall behind the youngest miss. Grinning at the news of the engagement. Hawkin’s letting his usual stony façade melt into a smile, and Nessie was grinning cheekily from ear to ear, a splitting grin and a debonair wink directed at her friend. Libby smiled. Watching as Felicity tried to catch her breath. Sprinting across the room and straight into her sister’s arms. Smiling like the act were going out of fashion.

“I _knew_ you’d marry him..”

She exclaimed when she pulled away. Smiling up at Elizabeth before enveloping her sister in a hug once more. Everyone around her chuckling. Libby squeezed her sister back, smiling happily.

“Thankyou for that honest hope, Felic…” Libby grinned.

Felicity pulled back, turning her cheek filled copper eyes to her big-brother-in-law to be.

Thomas grinned, and crouched to get at her eye level. Easing himself down. Libby lovingly stroking his shoulder as he did.

Everyone watched as he held out his hand to her.

“I believe I kept to my end of the bargain. Pest.” He winked. “We’ll see you at Chatsworth for your summer getaway’s. If you behave..” He warned in a stern voice.

Felicity collapsed into laughter, shaking his hand.

“That you did. And may I say, You are quite the best big brother in the world Sir Thomas.”

“We needn’t stick to formalities, Felicity. I insist..” He smiled at the little pest.

“We are family now, after all.” Libby interjected.

Thomas peered up to smile his most melting grin at his fiancé, along with his dazzlingly gorgeous eyes before Felicity’s voice captured his attention once more.

“Will you have children now?”

She burst out suddenly. As if she expected them to throw down and consummate the marriage right there on the antique Persian rug.

Thomas laughed.

“Never change, _Pest..”_

He chuckled. Winking at the cheeky young miss.

Felicity beamed. Before she stepped forwards and threw her arms about his neck and held him close, trapping him in a loving, body encompassing hug.

When she pulled away. Sir Thomas looked at her for a long second. Before beckoning her close with a crook of his finger. She leaned in, and he whispered something into her ear. Libby was only all too curious what it was.

He then nudged her towards Mrs Sharpe.

Felicity did the same finger crooking motion to her stepmother, then when she obeys and leaned down. Felicity whispered in her ear too, and Libby watched as Mrs Sharpe’s face fell, and blanched a little.

“Sir Thomas..”

She gasped, heartened all the more. Looking a little shocked, but enraptured.

The man shrugged in a carefree manner. Slouching one broad shoulder up and down again.

“It is the least of all measures I could offer..” He awarded.

“What is?”

Libby asked, her curiosity truly peaked. Needing sating. He loved that about her. And as such, grinned at his fiancés prying streak as she turned to look up at him.

Thomas grinned down right back at her.

“What do you think, Pest? Should we tell her? or should it be our little secret?” He asks.

Felicity grinned. Tapping the side of her nose and winking, Thomas doing the same funny motion back. Making Mrs Sharpe giggle madly _. He adored children, that was such an amiable quality for a husband to have._

Elizabeth tilted her head, between the pair of them, they were growing to be thick as thieves. 

“Would anyone care to enlighten me?” Elizabeth chuckles.                     

Felicity beamed.

“Thomas offered to provide me with a dowry for when I come of marriageable age..”

She smiled, twirling her body from side to side in elation. Hands folded behind her back.

“Heaven help us all when such a day comes..”

Sir Richard mumbled lowly under his breath from across the room.

Libby’s face fell in enraptured amazement. And she looked up in perfectly contented shock at her husband to be.

“ A dowry? But Thomas, you…”

She began. Trailing off, quite clearly lost for words. Smiling in utter love up at him. Gentleman only provided dowry's for their immediate relatives. 

He looked down upon his stumbling bride to be. Lifting a wry amused brow, grinning at her stuttering. And she was usually so very eloquent.

“You would, put money aside, and do that for Felicity?”

Libby asked.

“Yes, darling. I never go back on my word. So long as we are to be married, I shall provide _all_ my cheeky young wards..”

He turned and winked at his sister in law, of whom blushed.

“.. with a sum of money for them to have access to when they solicit suitors. I have done it for Edith, and Judith. Though, I wager Edith may not have long, and Judith has a fair few years to go yet. But it as you said, we are family now, and families provide for one another, support one another..”

He explained.

“Though I’m not sure what sum we shall need in mind to get such a pesky young miss wed off..” He grinned

“…I should be happy enough to provide a great sum of money to assist Miss Felicity. It is the least I could do..”

He finished. Shrugging again, as if he were doing something as paltry and bland as offering her milk for her cup of tea.

She blinked. Astounded. Her husbands chivalry, kindness, and love for his family knew no bounds. Sir Richard smiled from across the room. Ascertain they should do very well together, their generous tempers were much alike.

“Will you ever run out of ways to render me speechless, Thomas?”

Elizabeth asked aloud. Unable to help herself.

“I’ll endeavour devoting the rest of my life to it, Mrs Kenworthy..” He grinned.

“Why don’t we all retire to the front parlour? I shall have Hawkin’s bring through some champagne to toast this happy occasion. “

Araminta interjected, before the two started staring deeply into each others eyes in the worst case of over affectionate, all consuming, and dangerously ardent love. In such a way that bordered on indecency. 

“May I have a glass?”

Felicity grinned wickedly, asking her stepmother as they turned and headed out of the room, into the hallway, and through to the parlour.

Even though they were out of the room, all of them still heard Mrs Sharpe’s angered sigh.

“Lord help me I am left with the impertinent gnat of a second ward to contend with. _No_ you may not, Felicity Farrow. And ask me once more and you shall grate my nerves into something of a wild frenzy..”

She offered sternly. Quashing her youngest protests.

Libby and Thomas gave each other an amused look. Watching as Sir Richard crossed the room to leave it also.

“You see why I beg for my eldest’s return Sir Thomas? I believe she is the only female in this house gifted with a fully sized organ of a brain in her head. I fear there is nothing but cotton wool between Felicity’s ears..”

He awarded with seriousness, his hands folded behind his back.

“I never stood to offer my corrections to that claim sir. For the sake of your sanity we shall be sure to visit often, and have Felicity do the same. She may enjoy several long holidays at Chatsworth House, if but to help rescue your lucidity, sir. It is a big house, we may be able to escape her far more easily.” Thomas nodded.

“I knew you were a worthy suitor of my Libby..”

Sir Richard shook his head, smiling amusedly, before he exited the room also, going after his wife and his youngest. And his silliest.

They laughed as he walked off. And they turned to each other for a small fraction of a private second.

“Shall we join them, Mrs Elizabeth Kenworthy?”

He asked her, testing out her new married name. Grinning after he did, leaning in to place a pucker to his fiancé’s lips.

He pulled back, watching as his Elizabeth smiled.

“Indeed we shall, Thomas.” She smiled back.

“Oh, and one more thing. _Fiancé_..”

He purred wolfishly at her, his voice sinking to dangerously desirous sounding levels.

Libby turned to him. Her blue eyes innocent yet beckoning all at once.

“Don’t think that we will have a long engagement, darling, trust me when I say I intend to make ours _a true_ marriage by next week at that latest..” He winked like the devil.

Libby’s stomach flipped. In order to make theirs a true marriage, everyone knew that meant _consummating_ it.

She opened her mouth but no words leapt to her lips. Her belly, she was sure jumped up to her chin, then to her feet, and back down again.

“I shan’t wish to hinder you in that regard..”

She beamed, letting him squeeze her close, and cup her delightful derriere in his hands, tugging her close, placing a genial kiss to her neck.

“Good. I’m glad to learn that I have an _obedient wife_..”

Thomas groaned lustily against her ear, chuckling, brushing her lobe with his lips as they moved out of the library and through the doorway into the parlour, pressed close, arm in arm.

Libby fought just to _stand._

“I fear you are making a wicked wanton of me..”

She whispered back to him, her lips kissing softly the side of his beautifully curved jaw.

“If you think today was pleasurable, my darling, just you wait til our wedding night..” He growled.

Her knees trembled. And she nearly fell right over her own two feet. Flat out, with her nose pressed right onto the carpet.

“Pray, how will our wedding night differ from the activities that surpassed between us this afternoon?”

She asks in a way that made him ache with painful want to get her to his bed right that very second. To just tug her away and _claim_ her.

His answer made her more than a little weak and silly.

“Because, dear heart, our honeymoon shall last _three weeks atleast_. And in all that time, I shan’t be letting you _out_ of our bed..”

Were he not holding her, she would have fell straight to the floor, a crumpled and mushy puddle of the feisty natured woman she once was. Bad for the elegance, was Sir Thomas Kenworthy and his dangerous melting desirous smiles.

 

 And it was damned inconvenient that. She prided herself on being so unjustly swayed. But then he'd smile, and she'd forget to breathe...

 

~

 

 

 


	26. ~The Society Letters of Lady Jane Plidebright~

 

 

 

 _AT last,_ dear readers, _AT LAST_. We finally have news that as thus author predicted right from the very first, Elizabeth Violet Farrow and Sir Thomas Kenworthy, The Duke of Chatsworth _, ARE_ _HENCEFORTH ENGAGED!_

_Hallelujah!_

This author is truly beside herself with the relief that she need hear no more the joys of young suitors, falling madly in love when they stared into her _‘ravishing’_ fine blue eyes, nor when they should wish the indecent desire to run their hands through her _unbound hair_ , as all young new baronets seem to want to exclaim to their friends when they set sights upon her. As did the new young Duke of Elermore, and Sir David Thorsby's eldest son, both of whom turned quite _silly_ in her presence as she attended a ball just days ago. Extending their indecent wishes in regards to Mrs Elizabeth’s beauty. Drifting around her all night like two enamoured gnats. Too late, Gentleman. Much too late.

This author predicts that Miss Farrow may no longer have that crowd of silly young men trailing around, slack jawed, after her at balls of assemblies any more. For married ladies must avoid all social balls for atleast three weeks after they are married.

And this author has had it reported to her, that the silly pack of boys that flounder after Miss Farrow were seen to disperse rather quickly at Lady Featherington’s ball this week last, for Sir Thomas Kenworthy glared most stonily at the young men upon overhearing their ardent desire for the woman whom was receiving his affections, and is now his betrothed. It is also known, that the young men _fell over_ one another in a haste to rush away at the Duke’s scowl of displeasure. Which the Duke smirked at, swooping a now, laughing, Miss Farrow up into a waltz. Looking at her in a hot and loving way, which Sophie Richworth was heard considering his look to his beloved to be _‘a breach of etiquette in the most disgusting manner’ (_ this author cannot help but interject that famous phrase, _pot calling the kettle black_ , here, for Miss Richworth is known to be the nastiest, silliest and most inappropriate flirt of _all_ London town)

But it appears she was only in a foul mood as Sir Carlton had managed to dodge her presence all evening, despite her _knowing_ he was for definite in attendance.

Miss Violet Burchrowe exclaimed her absolute mirth and delight at seeing him take shelter behind a Bernini statue in an alcove in order to avoid Miss Richworth passing him by.

Mrs Sharpe watched the dancing enamoured couple all evening from the Matron’s corner, gathering her friends fervent well wishes, and herself exclaiming how her Elizabeth had gained herself a fine ‘upstart’ in marriage. And how Sir Thomas was the most generous man she had ever known. Though it stands that the Duke had not found a ring pleasing enough, to his own liking, for his fiancé, as of yet. It is said he invited The Farrow Family, plus one Messrs Carlton, and one Miss Burchrowe, to take his box at the opera, the following eve for La Travierta. Which Miss Elizabeth exclaimed she could not wait to see. Which Sir Thomas replied to with that infamously melting grin of his that made Miss Farrow miss and stumble through a step or two of their dance, Luckily though, the Duke, being a man who has seen action, recovered his future wife with impressive speed and dominance.

This author declares that they are the finest match of the entire season, their tempers are much alike, and they are a most pleasing couple to behold. Despite all of this authors remarks about their tiresome bored state in regards to Miss Farrow, it is of no secret that this author predicts she will make a most fine Duchess. There is none so kind, as her nature. Nor more headstrong. Sir Thomas Kenworthy has found a rose among thorns In Miss Elizabeth for his bride. And let it be known, that this author wishes them all the good grace and joy in the world. For they truly deserve no less for their marriage.

This author knows true love when it is shown, dear readers. And a more loving couple the world will never see.

I predict great things from the future Duke and Duchess of Chatsworth post-haste.

And that, readers, along with my imminent wishes for joy for them both, is this authors _final_ word on the matter.

 

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 20th ~

 

~

 

 


	27. La Traviata, Evening Dresses, and Indecent Fiancés...

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ That Friday Eve, The Royal Opera House, Covent garden ~

 

Sir Thomas Kenworthy doggedly paced the barely bustling pavement’s outside the Royal Opera House, like an impatient panther, seeking his prey to come round the corner at any moment. Watching desperately for the street where he knew the Farrow’s carriage would roll around at any moment. As he paced back in forth yet again, stopping to pull out his pocket watch, his lanky friend opposite him grew all the more agitated.

“Yes. For definate now, I cannot feel my feet.. In fact, I think I have frostbite in my left big toe. I'm certain it just _snapped_ off..”

Benedict moaned. Shivering in his cloak, waiting impatiently too, huddled into the doorway of the theatre. Snapping and glaring his displeasure at his friend.

“Do shut it, Carlton…” He snarled back with impatience.

Thomas, who tucked his pocket watch back away in his pocket, turned and gave his friend his dryest wry smile. The man was a goddamned whimp. It was barely even chilly out here, not even below 18 degrees, the dark London night was in-fact, somewhat pleasant to his feeling. They were both fully attired in full black evening dress. Both with caped overcoats, tall black chimney tophats, expertly knotted crisp white cravats, under the most finely tailored black jackets. And where Thomas wore his tall black leather boots, Benedict, being of a Town Gentleman, repeated this sentiment, and wore his calf reaching boots too. The things making both gentleman appear vastly taller than they already were. Both their heights reaching somewhere near towering as it was on its own stead. Thomas chose to wear his dark black velvet waistcoat under his dress jacket, sweeping his cloaked overcoat out of the way, his hands straining loosely by his sides, his fingers flexing and relaxing under his white kid gloves (that he pinched from Benedict, having sorely forgotten to ask his valet, Wickham, to pack his own for when he headed to town for the season) His silver pocket watch chain glinted in the sparse candle light from just inside the theatre that he paced past once more.

Benedict sighed, his teeth beginning to chatter as he huffed in misery. Folding his arms under his coat to try and keep himself warm. There was a wickedly cool breeze sweeping through London this evening. He twisted his head, and looked longingly to the candle lit, and he could only imagine, _pleasantly warmed_ , interior of the Theatre just a mere metre to his left.

“Yep. I can confirm, There goes the right toe. Suffered the same disjointed fate as the left one. May we not go in _now_?”

He asks, whingeing, watching with envy as a small elegantly attired party of three slid inside the door, and he heard them marvel at how wonderous the heat inside was compared to the cold London night air. That really didn’t improve his anguish. _Not one iota._

Thomas sighed, closing his eyes. Shaking his head in frustration.

“I am engaged to Elizabeth now, how would it appear if I waited inside, and was not there to greet her myself directly when she arrives?”

Thomas asks. His tone not one of that searching for an answer from his “ _poorly tormented”_ coward of a friend. Whom could not stand a little bit of good old fashioned british weather. He had served in her majesty’s royal hussars, for heaven’s sake, braving the battlefield and the enemy all under fire. But one chilly gust of wind could render the twit into a frilly girls blouse...

“Like you had sense in that head of yours. And had a good practical judgement to remain _warm_..”

Benedict grumbled lowly. Folding his arms and mumbling alike a manner of a stroppy toddler.

“So help me lord, I think I may hit you unless you desist!”

Thomas bit off in a clipped terse tone.

Benedict said naught, but sulked silently now instead. Arms still folded trying to keep the measly quantity of his body heat close to his torso.

Thomas rolled his eyes. Staring back down the road, watching to see if a familiar carriage rolled it’s way down Bow Street...

And then he saw it. _At last_. An elegant carriage turned the corner and headed straight for the theatre, easing up to the curb.

Thomas could barely restrain his smile as the dark carriage baring the Farrow family crest rolled to the pavement, juddering to a rattling stop. The driver reigning in the horses with a sharp call.

Thomas strode across the pavement to the door of the stage coach, his long legs covering the distance quickly, being so good as to open the door and let the occupants inside climb out. His elegant gloved hand poised in the air to help people out, and the first hand that swooped to meet his own, was the elegant matronly white gloved hand of Mrs Sharpe, his mother in law.

“Oh, it was so good of you to wait upon us, Sir.”

She exclaimed with surprise and happy wonderment. Tonight he saw a flash of indigo and jewelled satin that was her dress, laden with bows, sequins and frippery under her dark blue velvet cloak. Huge pearl earrings were drooping down from her ears, and a thick jewelled necklace was linked about her throat, aswell as. Here was a rich, well dressed matronly mama, make no mistake about it.

“I am so very apologetic for our tardiness, but my youngest lost her hairpins you see, which, being Felicity was tantamount to a hysterical convulsion of the _worst_ most immature sort..”

She explained with frustration and a shudder as he held her hand and helped her get from the high carriage to the pavement.

Thomas chuckled at hearing the story of a ‘ _petit mal_ ’ at the hands of the littlest farrow pest.

“It is of no matter. M’am the Show does not begin for another 40 minutes yet…” He smiled.

The next hand that greeted him, he could see, was that of his fiancé’s best friend, Miss Violet Burchrowe. Dressed in a lovely and most fetching shade of plum purple, of which was trimmed with black sheer lace along her bared shoulders, her coiled walnut hair elegantly arranged to flow down from the back of her neck, which was left bare, cloaked in a warm looking soft black overcloak that she held out of the way as she glided easily to the pavement with the assistance of his hand. Small black crystals glittered on her ears, and she looked serenely beautiful In her modest dark evening gown. She was perhaps a little more slender than her friend, but no less fine looking. Any gentleman would be hard pressed not to find her beauty amazingly supple and overwhelming.

“Why, Thankyou, Sir Thomas..”

She smiled. She had quite one of the loveliest smiles thomas had seen. Second best in comparison to his Elizabeth’s, he wagered.

“Good Evening Miss Burchrowe. It is a sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance once more.”

He greeted. Helping her gently down. As she came to his level, he saw that she was a tall woman too, perhaps only a few inches shorter of his fiancé. She herself a slenderly tall woman. He heard Mrs Sharpe convey her greeting to Benedict, who bade her one back in politesse, perhaps warming to the notion that Araminta was not _such_ a fearsome society mama after all.

But the most extraordinary thing happened when he saw Miss Violet emerge, the man stepped right up to Thomas’s side, not giving one jot of care to the ‘bitter cold’ which he had been so bothered by a moment ago, complaining like a whinging old elderly relative, Thomas watched as he approached Miss Burchrowe with that elegant woman felling smirk on his lips. After having smoothed out his appearance like a preening peacock, he kept his hands behind his back, wielding his handsomeness to his advantage, towering over her, looking impressive and desirious. Which notably made her smile drop, her jaw grit together as he stepped forwards and brought her black gloved hand to his lips, kissing it, blue eyes not leaving the dark hazel pools of her own, which glittered in hatred back at him as he smiled wider.

“An immeasurable pleasure to see you again, Miss Violet..”

He adressed with his scandalous wink.

“Indeed. Sir Carlton..”

She hissed back. Barely containing her obvious revulsion to the man.

Thomas’s eyes flickered back and forth between them like he were watching a game of tennis. There was perhaps something going on there, between the two, simmering away beneath the surface that nobody else knew about. A small knowing smirk twitched his smile to the side. He’d never known Benedict to be so _affected_ at the presence of an Innocent young lady. Usually he ran a mile. But no. Not tonight it would seem...

 _Interesting_ … Thomas exclaimed inwards to himself, looking back into the carriage as a small little hand shot out and clasped his own.

“Evening Pest.”

Thomas smiled widely as he helped the lithe waif-like frame of his young sister-in-law down from the carriage, her youthful little bones springing into action as she hopped down beside him. coming to a stand. Clutching the skirts of her apple green dress in her hand, her hair elegantly worn alike that of Miss Burchrowe, half held up with a diamond clip, secured at the back, but with waves spilling down the back of her neck. As her ears were not peirced. She wore no jewellry, but had white gloves stretched on her little arms, and a deep navy cloak wrapping her body up to keep her warm. The green of her dress peeking through as she stepped forwards. The stark green of such bringing out the cheeky shine to her copper hued eyes. 

“Hello Thomas.”

She greeted with a cheeky smile and giggle of hers. Eyes glinting in the light, she threw her nose regally in the air in a most silly manner and went to her Stepmothers side.

Next, Sir Richard Farrow eased himself out, managing to extend his tall frame easily down to the rest of their party on the pavement.

“I take it I needn’t insult you by offering you my hand, Sir..”

Thomas asked with a smile, clapping hands with his soon to be father-in-law When he reached the pavement. 

Richard chuckled.

“How very wise my boy. I have not yet reached the age of frail senility. But when I get there, I’ll be sure to exclaim it at every turn. I shall keep to my study in my night cap and powdering gown and give as much trouble as I please… And take great delight in it..”

He joked. Winking to his companions. 

Everyone laughed, Violet and Benedict gave their laughter in unison, Felicity giggled, and Mrs Sharpe rolled her butterscotch hued eyes at him. Felicity tucked into her arms, hands resting on her youngests shoulders as she stood and exclaimed her frustration at her husband.

“Really, Richard. Can you ever say _anything_ appropriate?”

She wondered aloud with irritation to her tone.

Richard smiled, folding his hands behind his back, after he finished greeting Benedict.

“No, my dear, Araminta. I fear not. You often remind me of my advancing senility, I am reaching the age whereby I can now say disastrous things with little care as to the consequences of them.” He assured her. Grinning in a way that so often vexed her. 

Violet and Benedict smiled wide at his hilarious outbursts.

Mrs Sharpe rolled her eyes again. Thomas smiled at the family behind him, reaching in to retrieve the hand of the woman he had been eagerly awaiting to see all evening. All _day_ even. As soon as he had opened his eyes that morning at seven o’clock led abed, ever since _then_ he had wanted to see her.

His beautiful fiancé’s beautifully slender black gloved hand slid into his own, and he held it with a gentle squeeze, watching as his Miss Farrow came into view, out of the dark confinements of the carriage. Watching as the candlelight from the Theatre’s foyer behind him, illuminated the beauty of his Elizabeth as she moved to clamber out, cloaked in dark black velvet swathing her delectably ravishing body. Her lovely red hair was coiffured up, and he could not see much of her dress under her velvet coat, but he could see the trails of her skirt were black, and shimmered with sequins sewn upon it. On her neck she wore no jewellry, unlike that of her stepmother draped in pearls, which was something he was glad for. That meant his surprise would suit her very well. The only decoration to her fine beauty, were two teardrops of black crystals in her ears, which jittered and swung with her every movement. She wore little rouge on her cheeks, and her darkened lashes cast a long spidery shadow down over her supple pale cheeks that he longed to press kisses too.

She came to a graceful stand, her hand still held in his as she floated elegantly down to the pavement in front of him. His eyes growing warm with love as he looked down upon her.

“Good evening, Elizabeth..” He spoke in a loving rasp.

“Good evening Thomas.”

She purred back in a perfectly lovely tone that made him want to kiss deep into her smile.

“You look _astoundingly_ beautiful, tonight, my darling.”

He offered simply. In such a way that left her reeling. Like cotton pulled loose from its bobbin.

They stood looking and gazing deep into each others eyes for a long second, smiling, drawing ever so close, her hand still in his. For the pair of them, they turned quite silly in each others presence. They both lost all breath, and suddenly, the world around them ceased to exist. More enamoured lovers, the world could not produce…

“You did not have to wait out of doors for us. Thomas, It is a rather cool evening after all…”

Elizabeth offered with a genial smile as her fiancé offered her his arm, which she took, proudly standing tall by his side. Taking great honour to be on his arm for the rest of her life.

Thomas barely had time to roll his eyes or open his mouth before Benedict leapt into the conversation with alarming offended alacrity.

“Thankyou, Miss Elizabeth, for having such gallant intelligance about you. For I fear your betrothed is severely lacking in such a functional attribute.” He awarded.

Thomas glared beseechingly at his friend. Which made Elizabeth smile, and chortle into her sweet sunny laughter.

“Really Thomas, you made your poor friend wait out in the cold for us all?”

She chided with a kind smile. Winking nicely at Sir Carlton, who split his lips into a grin right back at her. Violet on his arm smiling at the three’s exchange. Elizabeth could always continue elegant conversation. She somewhat envied her friend for that trait. She herself always managed to say the entirely wrong thing.

Thomas’s jaw ground together. but she made him smile. A boring life he would not have with her as his betrothed.

“Why Miss Farrow, I don’t care how bold this may sound, he has picked a _fine_ wife..”

Benedict offered in his backhanded way of complimenting his friend on his fine choice.

“He needs no encouragement or sympathy from you, Elizabeth.”

Thomas warned her with a stern smile as they all headed indoors, into the blissful warmth and candle lit, red carpeted and very elegant foyer of the Opera House. Bustling with many parties who had all come to attend Guiseppe Verdi’s La Traviata. A very recent play, one of which Elizabeth had not seen before. She found herself quite excited for the performance.

“I have never attended the opera before…”

Felicity remarked, staring transfixed up at the ceiling with wonder. Looking at the high crown moulded ceilings, all with glistening chandeliers hung up in all their golden and crystal finery. Her mouth gaped wide like a goldfish at feeding time.

“If you should get lost in the translations, Pest, never fear, I shall endeavour to try and help you to best understand it..”

Thomas assured the young Farrow miss.

“You can speak italian?”

Felicity wondered with amazement.

“French and German too…”

Thomas smiled back.

“Elizabeth is fluent in french sir, if you didn’t know she was an accomplished woman enough already on her own stead..”

Violet interjected to Thomas, seeing her friend blush because of her words.

Thomas turned to Elizabeth. Brows raised in surprise. 

“Vouz pouvez parler couramment le français?”

Thomas purred fluently to his Libby. (You can speak fluent franch?)

She smiled, nodding.

“Oui. Monsieur. Ma langue préférée.”

She spoke back to him, watching as he smiled. (Yes. Sir. My favourite language)

He regarded his love with amazement for a long moment. Finally at last whispering with wonder…

“Tu es la femme de mes rêves, Elizabeth. Tu es _incroyable_..”

He flattered, the lovely sentence sounding all the more praising in a french tongue. (You are the woman of my dreams, Elizabeth. You are incredible)

“Je t’aime de tout mon cœur, Thomas.”

She answered back. (I love you with all my heart, Thomas)

He smiled wide at that. Looking like he wanted to devour her.

“Please, you two, I implore you to stop dribbling French into each others ears. You are making me feel like an uncultured swine.”

Benedict whined as him and Miss Violet began up the stairs, which swept up to the first class boxes where they were to watch and enjoy the show. It was just the four young adults, Plus Felicity ascending the stairs now. Mr and Mrs Farrow had paused at the bottom, wishing a good evening to Mrs Sharpes close friend. Lady Portia Forthtonne. They had bade them well, and expressed for them to carry on up without them. So they did, Violet and Benedict walked on ahead of Thomas and Elizabeth, and Felicity walked silently behind her big sister.

“Forgive me, Sir Carlton. But I fear I must accompany Felicity..”

Violet spoke up as they reached a landing of sorts, half way up the imperial staircase. Sir Carlton looked down at her as she looked back up to him with a pretty yet stern stare.

“And I was just beginning to enjoy having such a pretty lady on my arm. I should be the great envy of London town.”

“Pray sir, I did not rise to the bait of adding insult to your ‘uncultured swine’ remark. _DO_ not make me wish to rescind such silence.” She bit out.

“The lady doth have a temper..”

He smirked, just as Elizabeth and Thomas drew closer them both. Just out of earshot.

“Yes, Sir Benedict. And trust me when I say you do not want to be on the receiving _end_ of it..” She warned him.

“Why Miss Violet, I should wish to be on the receiving end of _so_ many things from you..” He smiled.

She grit her jaw, as her friend got to them both. Violet stretched a smile onto her lips.

“Felicity, should you care to walk with me? I find I tire of such uncultured swine like company..”

She dug to Sir Carlton, offering the young girl her arm, smiling in evil glee as Felicity took her arm. 

Thomas let out a harsh bark of laughter at seeing his friends face drop, glaring at the amusingly entertaining Burchrowe Miss, who was as ferocious as a wild cat, to contend with if she was irked.

“Of course.”

Felicity grinned, sliding to Violet’s side. Violet took her hand, smiling, and raising one wry brow as they stalked upwards, past a now lonely Benedict.

As someone else came down the stairs as they headed up, Elizabeth gained a couple of steps ahead of Thomas and the others, coming to the landing before them all. Several metres away whilst they let the oncoming party past. As Felicity, it seemed, was strugging in vain with a hairpin problem, she tottered up the stairs in need of Elizabeth’s assistance at fixing it. This left Benedict far behind on the first landing, greeting the people he just happened to know who were heading down past them. Lord Oxley, if Thomas wasn’t mistaken, an old school friend of Benedict’s father. And Violet and Thomas were left to one anothers company, waiting for the crowds to pass.

“Do you care for the Operatic Liberetta’s, Miss Burchrowe?”

Thomas asked, offering his arm as he helped her pick their way up the busy stairs.

“Not as much as your fiancé, I dare exclaim, Sir Thomas. I trust she regaled to you the time when we came here to see Puccini's 'La Bohème, she sat there, her face the perfect picture of enrapturement, as she hummed along to Act 2, to Musetta, the Soprano, in her favourite scene when she is tormenting her sweetheart, as merry as I have ever seen her. But of course, I, however was not as enamoured with it as she was, I’m afraid I slumbered for a while on her shoulder… She awoke me by clipping the back of my head with the play leaflet..” She admitted.

Thomas laughed.

“A most elegant awakening..” He asked.

Violet smiled, looking down as she tried not to trip over her cumbersome skirts.

“A more inelegant one, I cannot fathom..”

She offered in honesty. 

Thomas turned back as someone brushed past him, to see that Benedict had his eyes glued to Miss Burchrowe’s back as she ascended up the stairs ahead of him. He smiled at that.

“Pray, may I intrude, what is the state of affairs between you and Mr Carlton?”

He asked with gentle kindness.

Violet ground her jaw.

“He knows he irks me, Sir. And therefore tries to charm his way out of it..” She explained.

“ I am unapologetic if this is damaging to him, or rude of me…” she added.

Thomas laughed.

“Miss Burchrowe, Sir Carlton is used to young misses falling prostrate at his feet, dare I say that you showing him what sturdy fiesty mettle you are made of is _nothing_ but good for him. If I say so myself, the man is a dear friend to me, but he is also _an idiot_..”

Thomas spoke truthfully.

“I think he had high regard for you, Miss Violet. And does not know how to express such a thing. Love is foreign to him… But a woman of your stern tongue and beauty, I’m sure, has felled him, well and truly.” Thomas implied with a powerful knowing smile.

“If he is in love with me, sir, then I, am the Queen’s _Bloomers_..”

She interjected with humour filled astonishment.

But Thomas didn't desist.

“Fine. I face up to the fact that maybe I am wrong. But seeing that as we speak that his eyes are  _glued_ to your back, I’d venture I am not all _that_ far from the truth..” He grinned.

Violet turned to see, that indeed, Benedict snapped his eyes away from her when she met his gaze. Sheepishly averting his eyes elsewhere, because he had been caught.

She turned to look back at the grinning Duke of Chatsworth, who stared straight ahead, knowing she was gawping at that correct analysis of his close friend. And him, knowing he had exclaimed the pure truth.

“Hate to be smug about it, Miss Burchrowe, But I do not fancy myself to be wrong in this instance. He speaks of you to me, in rather high regard, you should know. Do have patience with him, he is, perhaps, hindered by his affection for you, unable to know how to act upon it. He is, after all. An _idiot_... And an enraptured one at that..." He said simply.

"And believe me when I entrust you with the information that such strong affection can serve to make a gentleman prone to an excellenct sharp breed of acutemy powerful stupidity..." He promised. 

Violet grinned.

“I like you very much sir. With every more word I hear of you. Whether from Elizabeth’s own lips, or from town gossip.”

She complimented. Not knowing quite what to say to his unearthing the truth of Sir Carlton liking her, that she’d dissect another time when she could truly analyse the full scope of it’s shocking truth.

“I feature in gossip? Pray, do tell..” He whispered.

“Nothing of too sordid a manner..”

She teased in good humour.

“You jest me, Miss Violet. At last. I have a worthy adversary..” He japed.

“Only that you beat Burke to getting her hand – a fact for which we are all eternally grateful may I exclaim – and that society Mama’s are quite peturbed with how they cannot snatch you for their own girls…”

“Peturbed?” Sir Thomas enquired.

“Yes sir. They say the way you look at your fiancé is something akin to indecency..”

“Indecent? Surely not, Miss? It is not that much of an improper look..”

He tried to defend, hating to think he was ill thought of. His brow pulled too.

Violet looked up ahead of her. To the landing where Elizabeth stood, seeing her friend had removed her coat, the candlelight behind her shining like a halo around her figure, the light framing her beautifully. Handing over her cloak to the theatre’s valet. Showing off the dress underneath.

She grinned.

“No. I suppose not. But I will have to be persuaded otherwise, I wonder have you seen your betrothed’s dress this evening? It is quite fine if I say so myself, something wicked to behold indeed.” Violet beamed cheekily.

Sir Thomas met her hazel eyes with a confused look.

“Why, no. No. I have not..”

“You may wish too, Sir…”

She added, nodding her head up the stairs, just above them.

Thomas turned at her directing, and looked.

And his heart stopped. Just like that. 

Elizabeth stood tall, slender and beautfiful above him. Where she had shed her cloak, the full view of her evening dress left him quite without breath. It was black, that much he had deduced from seeing the bottom of her dress from the coach. But the full view of it was twice as ravishing to look upon when it was not concealed by a shapeless cloak.

It clung tight to her hips and waist, flaring in from a long train of sequined skirts. She must have been wearing a corset and a black lace trimmed chemise underneath the lovely evening gown. The lace was just revealing, but at the same time, managed to be so honestly modest on her figure. The lace trailed down, baring her perfectly creamy skinned shoulders, clinging to her arms and her ample bosom, the sleeves ending just above her her elbow, her hands bare as she needed to slide off her gloves to assist in redressing her Sister’s hair. As she turned, helping her sister, as she bowed her head and let her elder sibling slide a diamond clip into her hair, affixing it in a certain style. He saw that the back dipped down quite low, sloping down over her shoulderblades, showing him the delectable view of her pale exposed back, trimmed at the waist with a small little row of black buttons leading down like a regimented platoon of elegant frippery. As the youngest Miss Farrow smiled and shed her own cloak, Elizabeth turned and looked to her fiancé to see him gaping up in such an adoring way, it was a wonder Violet hadn’t reached over and gently snapped his mouth shut from where it hung open wide enough for a passing bird to nest in. He stood, stock still on the step, gawping at the sight of her.

Elizabeth smiled down at him, and if that didn’t chain his heart to her with undying love, then he knew not what ever could.

Violet swerved around the wordless Duke, clasping Felicity’s hand in her own.

“Come with me, Felic. Now might be a wise time to venture to the powdering room, and leave these two lovebirds alone for a moment…”

Violet hushed to the young Farrow.

“But Mrs Sharpe made me swear I was not to leave the enamoured pair to one another..”

Felicity whispered, as they both watched Thomas regain his senses at last, pulling his mouth together, and slowly ascending up the last few remaining stairs towards Libby. Towards his Love.

Violet grinned. Winking at her best friends sister.

“I won’t tell if you won’t…”

Violet winked, hustling Felicity away. But not before she breezed past the Duke, muttering a little sentence that slipped into his ears, making him smile wryly at Miss Burchrowe, the ever entertaining Miss. Knowing now why she and his frank, dry witted Elizabeth were firm friends.

“Hate to say I told you so, Your lordship. But with respect, I don’t think, that **_I_** am to be  _wrong_ either..”

She simpered as she glided away with Felicity’s hand in her own, marching the both of them away to the recluse of the powdering room. Violet’s head held high in her victory.

“She hasn’t been too beastly to you, has she?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not at all… She is the most amusing young woman..”

He offered, still unable to take in all of her beauty.

Thomas handed his coat over to the valet too, whom after seeing his name upon his calling card in his coat pocket, assured him that the box had been left to his _exact_ specifications.

“Thankyou.”

He nodded to the valet. Holding out his now bare hand to Elizabeth. Which she took, feeling his smooth hand was delightfully warm, and the size of such dwarfed her own delicate hand. The foyer seemed to fall into a respective hush around them, all eyes glued to the enchantingly beautiful couple, who could not deny nor hide how enamoured they were of each other. The look in their eyes was nothing but _pure_ love.

Elizabeth let herself be linked close to her Fiancé’s arm, tugged close to his side, seeing that he looked twice as dashing in evening dress as he did usually. She had only seen him dressed as such the first night she met him, only a mere matter of weeks ago, and only then, did she realise how truly this man had turned her life upside down. In the most wonderful way. Thomas led them both after a theatre porter, who led them down a narrow, well lit walkway, pausing when he came to a set of pine wood double doors, pushing one open, and standing straight backed outside as the pleasant couple thanked him. Silding Into the pleasantly warm room. Which was like a waiting room, lined with striped wallpaper, baring a table with a vase of sickly fragranced flowers, and a gilded mirror beside it. Thmas smiled to see the small black velvet box hidden by the flowers, as he requested. Through a small gap in the dark red velvet curtains ahead of them, Elizabeth could see the gilded gold and bustled hushed noise of the theatre ahead of them. The porter informed them both that their parties coats would be brought here for when the performance ended, so as to avoid a cloakroom crush. Thomas thanked the man, who shut the door after bowing, and sliding away.

He turned to his fiancé, being sure to link his hand to the back of her slender waist, pulling her closer, far closer, than was appropriate. So that their bodies touched in many strategic locations. The look in his eyes, she recognised as that hot burning plea for when he wanted to make her senseless with a kiss.

“You look the most ravishing woman in the world tonight, my dear…I am most lucky to have the toast of London on my arm as my betrothed.”

He assured her, his right hand staying where it was, pressed to her waist, the other coming up to caress her neck, keeping her close.

She blushes, averting her eyes down, unable to look into his enchanting blue eyes, knowing she would get so lost and rendered instantly weak by his desire for her, lurking there.

“I’m hardly the toast of London nowadays..”

She offered honestly, meeting his eyes at last, shuddering at the lust she located there in the ice blue depths.

His thumb stroked up the side of her neck. His eyes beating away any dismissal of such a compliment.

“Every man who saw as you took off your coat, and revealed this infamous dress underneath, had their eyes _glued_ to you, darling Libby. I feared for a moment that I’d have to fend them of. Is it wicked of me to find such gleeful solace in all their jealousy now that I have won you?”

He asked with a smirk on his lips, and mirth littering his eyes.

“Most wicked, Sir... But I delight in being called yours..”

She smiled. Her eyes dancing with lust. Which he sated when he then leaned close and melted his lips slowly onto her own, keeping her close as his arms fiercely pulled her body into his own in a domineering way. As his mouth claimed her own, his clever tongue tipping to the corber of her lips, making her sigh and gasp all at the same time. He growled a small wanting moan into her mouth, which made her knees turn to jelly. She had to hold onto his back for dear life, or else she’d just crumble away. Like smoke dissapearing into the air.

When he pulled back, at last for breath, his left hand fingertips skimmed a delightful path down her collarbone, his forehead pressed to hers, strands of his lovely long inky black hair falling down into his eyes. As he tugged more breath into his lungs.

“I get to spend the rest of my life doing that. You’ve no idea how much that sates me..How much I need your embraces..”

He rasped in a lovely kiss strained tone.

Elizabeth smiled at him, her own lips feeling bruised with passion.

“Oh, How well my husband to be flatters me. And how I shall _never_  tire of it..”

She exclaimed, dragging her fingers through the back of his scalp. Combing the inky locks through her fingers like she had so wanted to do ever since she first saw him.

He chuckled at that, before his attentions turned to the table beside them both, and he grinned evermore.

“I do have something for you, my dear.. Something which I hope flatters you all the more..”

He explained, his hand reaching off to the side of where they stood, embracing, his elegantly long fingers clasping around a small velvet box, which made Elizabeth’s breath hitch in her throat.

“Thomas..”

Elizabeth spoke in a _‘you shouldn’t have’_ tone.

She tilted her head as he opened the box, and show her what nestled inside it.

“Not a ring, I’m afraid. I still have not found one with which I deem worthy enough to crown your beautiful hand..”

He explained, lifting her left hand to his lips, and kissing it.

Elizabeth was left speechless still, it was not a ring, it was a necklace. And it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was a silver chain, flagged all along with black crystals, and studded with diamonds. The modest necklace led to the front, with a single teardropped crystal leading down as the only semblence of flare on the flawlessly beautiful item of jewellry.

“Oh, my darling..”

She exclaimed, tenderly reaching out her fingers to gently graze over it. Looking thoroughly heartened.

“No point in having a wife, my dear, if I don’t get to spoil her rotten…”

He grinned, with a rascals wink, coaxing her to stand in front of the mirror, and placing the box down onto the table beside her. Moving to stand behind her, taking the beautiful trinket from where it laid in the box, and bringing it across the front of her throat, clasping it together as she pressed a fingertip to the cool jewel that rested in the dip of her pale clavicle, he watched ahead of him in the reflection as she caught his eyes and smiled, him doing the same as he came close behind her, his scorching breath fluttering down her neck. Able from such close proximity, to smell the intoxicating scent of honey and lillies, and the lavender scent that was woven into her red hair. Able better to feel the gentle heat that radiated outwards from her skin, especially as he finally managed to close the clasp at the back of her neck, leaning in to press the gentlest kiss to the back of her neck, hearing her sigh in ectsasy, his eyes roved forwards behind her shoulder to see that her eyes fluttered closed in pleasure of his sordid action.

“I know society dictates that any such affectionate demonstrations from a gentleman to his lady, out in public, in the theatre, is of the utmost vulgar taste, I hope you join me in disagreeing on this matter, _Mon trésor_ …”

(My treasure) He purred directly into her ear. Weilding his bilingual tongue into the equation to truly serenade her using just his voice.

She smiled, meeting his eyes in the mirror ahead of her.

“It does not seem so vulgar to me at all, Thomas. Matter of fact, quite the opposite. For I know we must conform to our best behavior when the rest of our party returns..”

He smiled, widely, as she turned, bracketed in his arms which rested on her wide hips. She was smiling in the most beautifully confident way up to him. urging him on with what he learned was her ‘come-hither’ look in her sizzling blue eyes.

“Is my lady requesting ill mannered affection of me, whilst we are left alone?”

He asks with a hot smile, leaning closer, and sinking into her, curling close.

“Is she asking me to _kiss_ her?”

He enquires, whispering into her ear.

“She does not feel she need ask..”

Are the words she purrs back, before he finds he was to be surprised by the lust he could unleash in his lover. She curled a hand to the back of his head, and brought their lips sharply together, moulding their mouths onto one anothers. Rewarding him with such a passionate kiss, that he has to inwardly chide himself, and remind his mind that ripping her dress off, and seeking to claim her right there on the chaise in the cloakroom was in the most poor taste for a gentleman to take a gently bred lady. When he did finally claim her body, it would be back at Chatsworth, in his bed, after having spoken their marriage vows, and belonging to one another in the eyes of God and England. _Then,_ and _only then_ , he would allow himself have her. He would strip her wth tender care, and make love to his wife in the same way. He would provide her with _such_ potent pleasure, she wouldn’t know what had come over her, like a furious tempest of all the pent up lust he carried for her. Which had been raging away inside him for weeks now.

At her taking the reigns in terms of passion, he finds he cannot deny how irresistable he finds the latter on her, he draws them close, squeezing and testing the weight of her body under his large hands. Leaning her close, before his lips and his brain decided to make her groan. As he pulls her close by cupping his hands under her delightful ass, he snakes his mouth down the side of her throat, causing her to sigh and arch up into him, her voice shifting into the most lovely moan. Her hands sink into him, one fisted to his shoulder, creasing his jacket, and the other, familiarizes itself with the favoured position of sliding through his thick hair, latching into his dark hair as his lips sucked a mark deep onto the pale column of her throat.

It is then that they heard footsteps walk along the creaky floorboards, coming to the double doors just to the side of them.

“Thomas..”

She whispers hotly against his mouth. Not wishing to be caught, and induce more scandal than they already had for being so highly enamoured of each other.

He moaned, pulling away from her throat and swallowing. His words a husk of its previous self.

“I know. But please bare in mind, that I am a grown 30 year old man, and I refuse to cower and sneak around behind closed doors trying to kiss you. I’m bloody well marrying you before I perish of my desire.” He assured her, speaking in a smile Into her ear.

She smiled. Placing a hand to his shoulder.

“I await it eagerly..” She moans.

He groans dropping his head down onto her shoulder.

“You will be the death of me…” He paused, then switching his eyes up to hers and smiling like the devil as he winked.

“ _Wife..”_

 

 ~

 

 


	28. Tears, Enrapturement, and a Lady's Final Word...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's bloomin' long. I warn you now.

 

 

Elizabeth and Thomas managed to separate their passion entwined bodies, just in enough time for whatever person whom was now making their way towards the box, would not find them in an unsavoury position. Even though an engagement meant that the strict rules could be relaxed a little, Which meant that Thomas could hold her hand in public, or press a haste kiss to her cheek, and that they could ride a carriage together unchaperoned. But, _unfortunately, he thought_ , Not yet did the strict age allow or deem it one bit acceptable for them to be discovered entwined in another's arms, embracing in the most passionate way.

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest, trying to quell the pleasant churning in her stomach that made her torso feel as choppy as an Atlantic crossing. She crossed the narrow room from her fiancé, who watched her with those burning blue eyes as she eased her trembling knees down onto the chaise, awaiting their company. He stayed where he was, stood a respectable distance away, hands loosely by his sides in a commonplace manner. But as Elizabeth dared her eyes to flicker up the length of her betrothed, as he stood there, smiling that wicked grin at her, looking toweringly tall and handsome. She finds she must avert her eyes again, for want of embracing him once more.

Thomas watched as she blushed. Trying to calm her impassioned senses. He smiled to that, ashamedly not feeling apologetic for causing such lust in her.

“I wonder who comes to join us..”

He spoke softly, in his smooth deep voice. Seemingly unaffected by the lust that they shared together moments ago. Hands now folded behind his back. She sent up her thanks to god, Elizabeth sighed, closing her eyes gently for a second. _Because if she looked at his wonderful large smooth hands, she’d instantly remember how those hands had cradled, cupped and gave her such pleasure she knew not what…_

“I wager it is Sir Benedict..” Elizabeth hazarded a guess.

Thomas tilted his head at her, with a kind building smile.

“Should you care to place a bet on such? Dearest heart?”

He asked with a cunning grin making his face malformed in the candlelight into a sinfully amused expression making his smile glow, and his eyes glitter darkly with amusement.

“I know it is sir Benedict, Thomas, Because Violet intended to leave us together at her desire to be a cunning cupid, when she does decide to come back, and put an end to our time together, she will be sure to let us know in such a vociferous manner, you will have never have heard _such_ noise in _all your life._ I wouldn’t put it past her and Felicity to work a severe coughing fit into the situation, blaming it on a speck of dust caught in her throat, they may possibly even a good loud scream in there aswell should they wish...”

Thomas chuckled at her words.

“As bad as that? They are going to scream to announce their presence?” He asked with playfulness in his eyes.

“I believe so. At the hands of the two co conspirators who intended to leave us alone. They will be so good as to give us plenty of warning..” She offered.

He chuckled, crossing to come to ease into a comfortable position just by her side upon the chaise. His jacket brushing only just past her shoulder in a way that educed an all body shiver to make her quake all over.

“I do so hate being manipulated. But seeing as that it left us both on the receiving ends of such pleasure. I cannot seem to muster my anger..” Thomas grinned. Leaning close to better whisper in her ear.

Elizabeth smiled too. Hands folded to gently slope together in her lap.

“I hate such transparent methods of exploitation also. It oft makes me want to shriek aloud in frustration, at times. If I’m no to experience it at Mrs Sharpe's hands, then I am at Felicity’s and Violets…”

Elizabeth bristled, yet with a kind smile. Shaking her head.

Thomas said naught but to catch her left hand, scooping it up into his own, twining his long fingers through her delicate ones. Raising her hand to place a kiss to the back of it.

“Doesn’t it make you at all annoyed? Two perfectly grown and sensible people such as us being treated like two giggling adolescents?” Elizabeth asked.

“It makes me want to scream. Does it not you?” She asked.

He smiled, widely, his eyes meeting her own. His thumb sweeping over her pulse. When he next spoke, his words were so gruff and hoarse, it made her spine wrack with pleasure when he did speak.

“My darling, If I was so good as to tell you what made me scream, you’d _faint right here on this chaise_.”

He assured her, hushing low in her ear, making her tremble and flush right from the roots of her hair, to the tips of her toes.

She bit her lip, looking away, trying her best with the power of her mind to let her cheeks calm into their usual paleness once more. Just in time for the door to sweep inwards once more, as they saw the Porter hold it open, and the tall frame of Sir Benedict Carlton breezed through it, fixing his waistcoat and smiling at his two friends.

“You two certainly are a hasty pair..”

He offered, his smile widening as he caught sight of Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks, quirking a brow in a barely noticeable movement to his friend. Whom he didn’t think was such a man inclined to smother a woman with passion when they were left alone for a mere moment. But apparently, he was to be proven wrong. They were quite stupid for one another after all. Sat hand in hand. And they were engaged to be married after all, so its not as if they were harming anyone.

“How does Lord Oxley fare? I saw him offer his greetings to you..” Thomas asked.

“He fares well. He enquired as to my Father and the usual nonsense that all elderly aqquantainces offer, and accost you with, blathering on and on about things of next to no importance..”

He smiled, easing his frame down into an armchair squeezed into the corner, opposite the young couple. Seeing his remark made Elizabeth smile.

“I quite agree. Ophelia can be counted in such a category. She once gave me a thirty minute lecture as a young boy, about the importance of lace doilies..” He offered, barely suppressing his frustration. To which he was delighted to see Elizabeth chuckled at most amusedly.

“Pray, Does she still haunt Chatsworth hall with all her insane ways?” Benedict asked with a garish smile.

Thomas smiled wryly.

“She has been around since dinosaurs walked the earth, I am certain. And I am assured her heart will out beat all of us…” He groaned. Turning to Elizabeth.

“Ophelia is mine and Iris’s great Aunt, since her husband died 11 years ago, I provided a home for her with our family at Chatsworth House. And she is the most demented old bat anyone has ever seen..” Thomas explained.

“A proper old battle axe.” Benedict added.

“She sounds like an utter character to my ears..” Elizabeth grinned to Benedict and Thomas.

Thomas raised a disbelieving brow to that.

“I wager, after you meet her, you shall _rescind_ that statement, darling… For she has none of her sensible wits left about her whatsoever.” He warned.

“Say what you wish sir, I shall meet her myself in person and then, only then, shall I thereafter offer you my good honest opinion..”

Elizabeth bestowed with a powerful tilt of her chin and gleaming stubborn eyes.

Thomas fought not to leap upon her and ravish her as she sported that defiant dominant look that managed to be so beautifully innocent all at the same time.

“Then I consider myself well and truly muzzled on the matter, my lady..” He offered, waving the proverbial white flag.

“Besides. It would do you well to take nicely to someone such as she. I should wish to know I shan’t drive you out of your skull when we are both senile withered old biddies..” Elizabeth grinned, laughing as she turned to her beloved, squeezing his hand back as he did hers.

His smile grew.

“I consider we shan’t ever cause one another’s tempers..” Thomas predicted.

“Really? My love, we are to be henceforth married for all our lives, I doubt we shall last all that time without incurring the others ire atleast more than once..” She offered.

Benedict smiled watching the two of them. Quite knowing that they would be a most suited couple for the rest of their lives. It was heartening to know how deep their love for the other went. And he wagered that would only grow more and more with each day when they were wed.

“Heaven help me, I’m marrying a passionate realist..” Thomas exclaimed, squeezing her hands tight.

“The best sort of people in the long run. You’ll see…” Benedict promised Thomas, winking at the both of them.

It was then all three of them heard such a commotion in the hallway, it would have been impossible to label it as any kind of disguised attempt at a subtle and quiet entrance. There came the wooden whine of the floorboard long off at the end of the corridor, and then there was nimble little treads of footsteps thudding along the carpet coming to the door, all the while, as the two drew closer, there came such flamboyant noises from the pair of them, that Elizabeth had to bite the inside of her lip in odes to the humour of how correct she had predicted the situation.

Felicity was couching as if she had been left outside all night in the rain. Hacking and retching and projecting the noise towards the door with no politesse to be at all sly about it. And Violet, started loudly clearing her throat and took to letting loose a flurry of several wall breeching sneezes that could have shook the the chandeliers down.

“Oh My..” Violet exclaimed, and they all of them heard a loud inelegant progression of patting thuds. Presumably as Violet thwacked the youngest Farrow several times on the back to help _‘assist’_ along with her coughing.

“What on earth…?”

Benedict began laughing, with brows pulled to a frown as the porter moved to push the door inwards for the two ladies.

Thomas leaned into his Elizabeth, and whispered hotly in her ear with a grin.

“I think I now understand what you mean, dearest..” Smiling as Violet and Felicity made themselves known, bustling their unquiet way into the narrow little room.

“And I think this is the opportune time to point out that Miss Violet just realised that there are no Ladies Powdering rooms on this floor…” He added in a forgotten hush.

Elizabeth snorted into a very unladylike fit of giggles as her Friend and Sister drew both into the room, seeing that their efforts were wasted. For Elizabeth and Thomas had not been left truly alone for a private few minutes, as per her scheming intentions after all. She hated to think her efforts had been all for naught.

Violet’s smile faded and her shoulders slumped down inelegantly as she saw Sir Carlton reclining decadently in a chair opposite his friends.

“Forgive me.”

Violet offered sweetly, clearing her throat in a timid, saccharine and most feminine manner – when compared to the great guttural retching, spewing and literal foghorn sounds she made before she entered the room – going some way to falsely prove that her throat was of a most unsatisfactory condition all of a sudden. _Heavens only knows why…_ she’d claim falsely in the most angelic manner.

 _The weak little noise she made now, resembled that of a shy little squeak of a chipmunk in comparison to the moose impersonation she attempted as she neared the door,_ Elizabeth thought.

“I believe that I had a speck of dust caught in my throat.” She informed to the room of friends before her. Nodding most seriously, in an innocent frontage.

“Yes. And I believe I to had dust in my throat. For it was _so_ terribly musty in that powdering room..” Felicity exclaimed only a little too loudly for it to _not_ have been rehearsed.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, smiling at the pair. She was too amused at them to be angered…

“I see.” Elizabeth spoke, trying desperately to look serious and not giggle.

“I thought it was common that everyone knows that the Royal Opera house ladies powdering rooms are among some of the dustiest places in London..” Thomas remarked with dry humour. Turning Felicity and Violets ‘true’ statements on their heads.

Elizabeth tittered at that.

Violet’s face and body sunk with defeat.

“An ‘A’ for the best effort though Miss Burchrowe, Miss Felicity..” Benedict smiled.

Violet huffed.

“Atleast I had the gall to attempt at subtlety.” Violet dug to Sir Carlton.

“I take it you stormed in here with all the tact and grace of a charging army?” She asked with a wry brow raised and a challenging smile to her lovely lips.

Benedict grinned.

“Surely we should not be discussing such blatant situations in front of the two very reasons of your masquerading concealments…” Benedict grinned to Violet.

To which both Elizabeth and Thomas gave each other a private ‘aren’t-our-friends-idiots’ kind of a look.

“Please, you two, we have ears..” Thomas interjected.

“And prides..” Elizabeth added.

“It wasn’t my idea…” Felicity felt inclined to burst out in truth.

“Well. You’ve well and truly gone and sold me up the river _now_ , pest.”

Violet burst out with a grumpy good natured frown to the youngest Farrow. Who sheepishly avoided her co conspirators gaze. Suddenly becoming rather infatuated with examining the hem of her gown.

Elizabeth smiled, looking accusingly at Violet with a winning smile.

“Of that I’m aware. Though I appreciate your valiant attempts at playing cupid, Violet...” Libby smiled.

Violet harrumphed, gritting her jaw. Clearly she prided herself on being a mysteriously gifted miss.

It was at this point that the doors opened, and the stony face of the moustached porter swept regally into the room. Attired in the theatre’s red and gold trimmed uniform. And his posh prim voice cut through the atmosphere to all those in the room before him.

“Excuse me, Your Lordship, ladies and gentleman, but the Show is about to begin…” He informed them all.

After Thomas thanked him most kindly, and he slid away, everyone stood to go and take their seats beyond the red velvet curtain. Thomas and Elizabeth stood – as ever he offered her his hand as she rose up onto her feet, like the true gentleman he was – and they stood, following Benedict’s lead as he swept the curtain aside and revealed the beautiful dark atrium of the stage. The ornate gilded frame that glittered in the candlelight was a sight that always made Elizabeth gasp and gawp at it’s awesomely elegant beauty. The atmosphere softened by the buzz of voices, and the simmering crowd below them all, chatting as they waited patiently for the show to begin. The room dimmed, glowing in a deep maroon with the dark air from the red velvet seating.

They watched with laughter as Benedict curtseyed in a most silliest manner to Felicity, holding her hand and prancing stupidly with her to her seat. His hair flopping about wildly on his head as he galloped along the second row of seats like a mad man. Her hand in his own as she giggled.

“Come now, young miss, I must escort you to your seat, lest Mrs Sharpe make me eat my own bonnet…”

He wavered in a silly attempt at a girls voice. Felicity giggled at him. Violet, Thomas and Elizabeth all doing the same thing.

Violet stepped through down into the seated area, holding her skirts out of the way. Elizabeth doing the same after her friend as Thomas let her hand go with a gentle

“After you my dear..” As she breezed through, but not before giving him a gentle smile.

They had just made it to their seats, When Mrs Sharpe and Sir Richard caught up with the party at last. Gliding through the narrow cloakroom to catch up with the rest of their intended party.

“Are you alright papa? You look a little pale…” Elizabeth remarked as he father drew close.

Sir Richard gave his daughter a dry smile.

“That woman could talk the hind legs off a donkey..” He sighed, motioning in regards to Lady Forthtonne, Araminta’s friend whom they had stopped to talk with.

“Oh _hush_ …” Mrs Sharpe interjected. Half heartedly swatting at her husbands chest as she stood by him.

“With my nerves in the state they are in, how can I expect to grace the number of parties that she does. This way I get the best gossip from the cut direct without overexerting myself…”

She explained. Seeing that Felicity sat next to Benedict, who were currently playing a hushed game of Tic Tac Toe with one another, and judging by the way Benedict groaned, he had lost pitifully to the young miss.

“Felicity. I hope you aren’t playing too vigorously..” Mrs Sharpe called over softly to her youngest.

“She’s thrashing me M’am. T’is an evident fact that she’s making a shameful spectacle of me..” Benedict remarked.

Araminta smiled across to him.

“In that case, do carry on Felicity..” She japed.

Benedict smiled. Perhaps she was not _as bad_ as he had once thought. She had one daughter married off after all, she could relax her rules a little.

“May I sit next to you? Sir Carlton?” Felicity asked with politesse.

“If you wish, Farrow. Care to join us Miss Violet?” Benedict asked. Meaning to enclose the young Farrow with Violet and himself either side of her.

“If I must..” Violet smiled wryly to Felicity, sliding down to sit next to her.

This caused Benedict to raise a brow, smiling handsomely at the young miss over Felicity’s head as she leant forwards and gawped at how high up they were.

“Couldn’t bare parting from me, then?” He asked with digging humour to Violet. Who scowled back at him.

“It is a small box, sir, I am not so stupid as to think I could avoid you inside it.” She offered.

“I think you _like_ me..”

Benedict smiled wickedly, leaning closer behind Felicity’s back

“And I think _you_ like _irritating_ me..” Violet shot back.

“ _SO_ you _do like_ me?” Benedict grinned.

“Well. Ruminate on that all you like, Sir. Because trust me when I say the words ‘like’ and ‘you’ will never cross my lips born in the same sentence...”

“Except that they just did..” He pointed out.

“You are impossible..” Violet hissed.

“Impossibly handsome…” He smirked.

“Impossibly _exasperating_.” She carried on.

“You didn’t fight me on the handsome bit..” He answered her. “Therefore you _must_ think it true..” he assessed with a proud smirk

Violet inhaled a deep breath, closing her eyes. Reminding herself that having a stranger flogged could tend to be seen as a _little_ bit heartless.

“I think it true that you are the worst sort of rake, and that you take great pleasure in vexing me because you know that it drives me up the wall. And you find that amusing because you do not know how to treat a woman like a gentleman..” She snapped.

Benedict took in her words with a quirk of his brow.

“I think a large number of ladies across London would _disagree_ with that statement…” He smirked.

“I shall forever be thankful I am not one of those unfortunate ladies, with no care for etiquette.” Violet dug.

“Rapier like wit, Miss Burchrowe..” He congratulated. “I expected _no_ less from you…”

“Glad I didn’t disappoint...” She grumbled lowly.

“You could never endeavour to disappoint me, Miss.” He awarded.

Violet frowned.

“That sounded eerily like a compliment..” She said in a bewildered manner.

“That’s because it _was_ one…” He offered sincerely.

Violets brows shot up her head in shock.

“I think hell just froze over..”

She offered, watching him smile his fantastic smile ever so slowly, looking across at her. The sight of which caused her own to stretch out too. And her skin went all tingly when she looked into his remarkably feline shaped dazzling blue eyes. His breath caught in his throat at seeing her smile kindness and mirth at him. _She really was so utterly beautiful when she wasn’t spitting venom at him…_ well. Actually, she was beautiful when she hissed hate at him too, he just didn’t want to admit to it.

Felicity sat back in her seat, her head switching from left to right. As if she were attending a badminton match.

“Are you two going to get married too?” Felicity asked.

Benedict rumbled into a shocked bout of laughter. And Violet could not seem to close her wide mouth nor wide eyes for anything in the world.

“Pigs are more likely to fly..”

Benedict rumbled, his eyes flickering over to Violet, before looking in the direction of the stage. She glared at him before turning her attention there too.

In front of them, Thomas and Elizabeth, as always got along far better than that of their witty counterparts of friends. They turned their heads back to face in front of them, rather than watching their friends banter and snarl at one another.

“I think she’s terribly good for him..”

Thomas whispered into Elizabeth’s ear, having shuffled very close to her in his chair. Right close to her side so she could feel the brush of his jacket with every brush of his arm.

“I think he presents her with a fine challenge. Which is something she relishes, If I know her but at all..” Libby grinned. Moving to get comfortable in her seat.

Thomas peered over his shoulder to see if Mrs Sharpe was watching them. Which she was not. She was gabbling away to Violet, whom she sat the other side of. Sir Richard next to her, checking his pocket watch.

He took ample advantage of that opportunity to twine his hand with her own again, brushing over her knuckles with his thumb. She looked up to her unbearably handsome fiancée and smiled gladly for that little action. It always set her body into literal _flames_ when he did it.

At this point, Elizabeth’s eyes looked forwards, roving all over the crowds that were starting to pour into the main seating area, as the show was about to begin. A movement near the far right of the theatre caught her eye, it was a woman, dressed in the most eye catching shade of pink. Topped with a huge flouncy pink hat, and whose figure was slim and remarked to be the loveliest in all of London’s Gaiety’s. A colour so lucid it was nearly a gaudy sight, of which the eyeball was not capable of taking all of such in. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.. was _that?... It was_. She realises.

It was Mabel Loxley. And the gentleman trailing behind her was one with whom Elizabeth was _very_ distantly familiar. And the sight of whom made horror and fear lurch into her gut. Her skin prickled all over with uncomfortable revulsion. With the tainted memory of how he had handled and abused her. The now fading bruises on her neck sat as a testament to how he treated the women of his acquaintance…

She watched as Marcus Burke snapped off his gloves harshly as Mabel drew as much attention to herself as she could, by merely lowering herself down into her seat on the end of the row. In doing such, she threw out her arms in the most austere way, and fanned her arms out as far as she could manage. _Every inch the diva_ … Elizabeth remarked dryly to herself. She then swallowed, watching as Burke remained standing, his stance hinted of power and arrogance as his eyes scanned all around the theatre, his legs spread wide, his body nearly taking up the entire aisle as he stood there, head tilted up examining all of the boxes which lined the walls of the theatre to his right. She gusted out a little gasp as his head titled to the left and scanned up and up. And then he saw her. Even though she was metres and metres away she could still manage to feel the hatred from those brown eyes glaring up at her. He tugged off his cloak harshly and thumped down into his seat next to Mabel, whom instantly laid her hand over his, leaning in to talk to him. But he paid her no heed. He just glared at Elizabeth. Not saying a word. His impassive face directing the worst sort of dirty loathing look up to her.

She snapped her eyes away, breath ripping from her lungs as she looked to the stage once more. Trying hard not to cross her gazes once more with the detestable man.

But Thomas, who was sat so close to her that he could hear her every breath, instantly sensed her unease.

“My dear, what ever is the matter?” He asked kindly, his mouth near her ear.

Elizabeth looked back to him, a pleasant smile attempting to hide whatever discomfort he had picked up on.

She swallowed, leaning only slightly closer as she wet her lips.

“Marcus Burke is here..” She admitted in a tiny voice.

His face turned into absolute thundering fury at that. But he looked impassive, he tried his best not to let his anger come forth. Libby could tell when he was trying his best to reign his emotions in. they were in a public place after all. Him exhibiting any of the rage he felt towards the honourless animal was out of the question. He looked up over the balcony, peering below to sweep those wonderful – hot tempered – blue eyes of his across the audience until he came to Burke placed on the end of the row. Sat next to that god awful poisonous Loxley woman, who was draped in a hideously alarming shade of eye watering pink, it was nearly blinding. He then looked beside him.

Then, Elizabeth did something that reminded Thomas why he loved her _ever so_ much. She raised her chin high, holding it up proudly. And took a deep breath, impassively glaring back in Burke’s direction, before she turned and caught her husband to be’s eye line.

“I’m not going to let that ghastly man to ruin my evening with you.” She insisted, clasping his hand tight. As the lights dimmed low and the theatre fell into a respective hush for the singers whom were about to appears onstage as the curtains were pulled back.

Thomas smiled at her bravado. Knowing then, why he fell hard and fast in love with her. Not only was she brave, and kind. But she was strong. She was no demure wall flowered miss as she had once been mocked for such. She was a strong and determined woman who wasn’t letting an unfortunate experience with a rotten man shake the foundations of her life. She was magnificent. And he only felt grateful at that moment that her affections found some symmetry in his, and that he could claim to wake up each morning for the rest of his life as her husband.

“I love you.”

Burst out of his lips in the smallest whisper before he could stop it.

“Touché.”

She smiled back proudly. Before both their attentions were turned to the stage ahead of them as the opening notes of Act 1, and the prelude started to warm up, the musical notes prancing up and about on the hot theatre air and enchanting the audience into appreciative silence.

Elizabeth and Thomas watched from high up in the dark box as the curtains parted to each side, and revealed a Parisian styled saloon, where many men and women bustled around a gambling table, upon one hazy elegant Paris noon. Elizabeth’s head tilted and craned to try and catch every movement of the elegantly attired men and women who were dancing and strutting about the stage, bustling in conversation in time to the music.

Elizabeth watched as one woman, in the centre of the stage made herself known. Dressed all in white, with elbow length gloves and a shawl about her shoulders. She became vaguely aware of Sir Thomas leaning close, as his hot breath sent delightful shivers running down her skin like pleasure was dripping from his mouth onto her body.

“That, is the heroine of the theatrical. Violetta Valéry. An aristocrat and noblewoman who has thrown a party at her elegant Paris salon. To celebrate recovering from a recent ailment..” He explained.

They both watched as Violetta simpered and swanned about the stage, accepting kisses to her hands, and flattery from her guests. Gliding about in a most elegant and frolicking custom.

“She certainly _acts_ recovered now..”

Elizabeth noted shrewdly. Making Thomas laugh.

“ _Ah_. We shall see, my dear….” He promises into her ear with a rascals smile.

“You should not tease your beloved your lordship..” She whispers back through a smile.

Thomas chuckled. And they watched on stage as out of the crowds, two men surface to talk to the young white clad heroine, Violetta.

“And those gentlemen?”

She asked with curiosity to Thomas, who smiled. She could feel his smirk brush against her. It felt like heaven. Especially when coupled with his rich throaty voice purring most nicely into her ear. He adjusted himself to pose more comfortably next to her.

“That’s Gastone, he’s a count, and he is now telling Violetta how he has brought with him a friend, the young nobleman named Alfredo Germont, the man standing to his left, who has long adored Violetta from afar. While walking to the salon, Gastone tells Violetta of the love that Alfredo carries for her, and that while she was ill, he came to her house every day to see her.”

“Because he loves her so ardently. He can bare to see her even when she is ill. And kept abed in naught but a powdering gown…” Elizabeth commented. 

Thomas grinned in odes to her wit. 

“That is Alfredo now joining them, admitting as to the truth of Gastone's remarks.”

He whispered, his warm smooth and _sinfully soft_ lips nearly upon her ear now. She could feel them tug and pull against her skin as he spoke. He was making her quiver ever more with every new whispered word. Flowing down into her ear like audible honey..

Elizabeth frowned with concentrating intensity as a man on stage had some sort of quarrel with the woman. Refusing to do something which the crowds had asked him to do.

She opened her mouth to seek answers yet again, but Thomas, being the chivalrous gentleman that he was, leapt to her rescue.

“Baron Douphol, Violetta's current lover, the Baron is asked to give a toast, but refuses, and the crowd turns to Alfredo, who agrees to sing a _brindisi_ – a drinking song, called, _Libiamo ne' lieti calici_ _,_ In italian, which means to ‘drink from the joyful cup’”

He explained to his eagerly curious lover, his hand twined through her own. Her head tilted in his direction, but her attention so fully taken by the happenings on stage. Tingling in the way her husband purred fluent Italian into her ear. So much so, that she felt like swooning.

“Well. Some people are such spoilsports..”

She added in good humour, making him chuckle into her neck. Which truly made her loose all thought.

Something else happened too. She watched as Some of the crowds fled the stage, heading for another room where the notes of an orchestra could be heard, but the woman in white stayed behind, clutching her head and swaying about as of she were ailed and dizzy. She motioned for her guests to continue without her. Shooing them away with a flick of her hand. But for all the life of her, she could not be distracted from her fiancé’s lips being so close to her neck. Driving her to the brink of lustful madness. Knowing what those lips could do if they kissed down across the pale column of her throat. Elizabeth swallowed and tried in earnest to watch as Violetta looked into a mirror, looking at her apparent ill features and pale skin. The man from earlier – the one who had developed a keen longing for her – Alfredo, entered. And sung deeply and with great spirit to the ailing woman.

“Alfredo is declaring his deep, passionate love for Violetta..”

Thomas spoke slowly, stretching out each word so that each single syllable made Libby shiver, fluttering her eyes shut for a second as she turned to him.

“Un dì, felice, eterea. ‘One day, happy and ethereal’…” He continued. His voice a commentary to the loving melody on stage.

They watched as more and more unfolded, Elizabeth, no matter how enraptured she was by her beloved’s voice, She could not tear her eyes away from the scenario unfolding on stage. She was well and truly enraptured. She found she could not look away.

“See. At first she rejects Alfredo’s love, because his love means next to nothing to her, but there is something about Alfredo that deeply touches Violetta’s heart. He is about to leave when she gives him a flower, telling him to return it when it has wilted. She promises to meet him the next day. After the guests leave, Violetta wonders if Alfredo could actually be the one in her life, Which in Italian is when she now sings _‘Ah, fors'è lui,’_ which translates to _‘_ _Ah, perhaps he is the one’_ But she concludes that she needs freedom to live her life ‘ _Sempre libera’_ _,_ which translates as, _always free…”_ Thomas added, gently explaining as the play drew on.

The both of them could hear as from offstage, after the man left, that his voice - Alfredo's voice - could be heard singing about love as he walks away down the street from the woman’s salon.

She blinked in rapid succession as the curtain came down, disjointing her from the magic of the play, and throwing her back, breathless and wanting more, back into the substandard drear of reality, as the magic of the Italian singing was sweeping her away with the characters on stage. Plucking her from her own troubles and exultations, and delighting her with the tales and the journey of their own tribulations.

Thomas chuckled beside her, watching as she grew more and more ardently curious. And the latter was most becoming on her, indeed, he adored it.

“I fear by the end of the night, you shall tire of the number of times I ask you to translate and relay the happenings for me…”

She smiled, turning to face him, to find he was achingly close now. So close that it was rivalling the indecent way they were pressed together earlier. Seeming to remember that they were in fact, in public, that he straightened his back and swayed away a couple of inches. Even though they were engaged and this allow a lax in the usual iron fisted rules of society. He didn’t want to lengthen the distance away from her, but as far as he was able, he should have liked to stem the gossip.

“Not if I get to remain as close to you as I have done thus far…” Thomas winked.

Elizabeth smiled all the more wider looking across to him.

In the dark of the box, the measly light that came only from the stage made his eyes sparkle like blue flaxen, and it made his skin look handsomely radiant. The way his obsidian hair was swept back from his forehead made him look dutifully unkempt yet so thoroughly well groomed all at the same time. And the inky locks of his wavy tresses mingled well with the light, catching every glimmer of the stage light that was possible. It also made itself known in the way it travelled so well across the smooth plane of his ivory skin. He looked unblemished. Like a Bernini sculpture that had sprung to life, his beauty was so handsome and classic that Elizabeth nearly wanted to curse it. Because it always left her softening to him in the most impassioned way. And the way his mesmerizing eyes burned and danced with light at her made her very weak indeed. She loved every single aspect of this man. And she didn’t care of whom knew as such.

He nodded forwards down to the stage, gesturing as the curtain rose and Act 2, scene 1, began, and they were transported now, along with Violetta and Alfredo, to the pleasant tranquillity of the Parisian countryside. It followed, and Thomas informed her, his wicked lips leering close to her ear again, explaining how Violetta abandoned her former life in want of a simple life in the country with him. Which Alfredo sung of, And during his radiant song, Elizabeth could not help but notice how Thomas squeezed her hand all the more tighter in his lap, stoking his thumb across the back of her hand as he sung in soft hushed Italian into her ear. ‘ _De' miei bollenti spiriti, Il giovanile ardore_ _’_ which he explained after was _"The youthful ardor of my ebullient spirits’_ holding her hand in his, and feeling her fingers flex back through his own as they gazed at one another as the play carried on.

She discovered that she could not look away as such love was broken up by tragedy. Alfredo’s father, Giorgio, not approving of the match, forces her to break it off as it is ruining Alfredo’s sister’s chance proposal of marriage, and subsequently leaves Violetta alone and weeping, after placing a kiss to her forehead. She gives a note for the maid to leave to Alfredo, explaining why she cannot be with him. But declaring her unconditional love for him in the letter through her weeping, tears, and sadness. Which when he receives, he is determined that her old lover, the Baron, is behind their separation. Storming away to confront his lover at a party in Paris.

Thomas watched as the acts sailed on, and the woman beside him, he could tell, her heart was growing heavily involved with the lover’s tale. She looked saddened, and beguiled. When Act 2, Scene 2 came, He watched the sight of Elizabeth as she was watching the scene unfold on stage. As Violetta enters the room with the Baron, she confirms Alfredo’s rage at her leaving him, for the Baron, her fearing it will spark a duel. But Alfredo still exclaims that he will take Violetta home with him. And pressured Violetta, through his anger, into confessing that she loves the Baron, after she asks Alfredo to leave. Still fearing that they may duel.

Thomas’s eyes shot to her when she gasped very loudly, her hand flying to her mouth at the part shortly after where Alfredo calls all the guests in attendance to witness as he drops his gambling winnings at Violetta’s feet in payment for her services, denouncing her and humiliating her in front of all the guests. He could see unshed tears in her eyes, glowing with the light from the stage. And the guests subsequently reprimand his evil words, as they have caused Violetta to faint. Singing to him: ‘ _Di donne ignobile insultatore, di qua allontanati, ne desti orror!_ ’ which Thomas explained to her was in fact, _‘Ignoble insulter of women, go away from here, you fill us with horror’_ and his eyes could not help at this point, but rove over the balcony, and scowl lightly in Burke’s direction at the poignant irony of the song. Towards the man who had assaulted his future bride. Elizabeth could not escape this too. Burke’s name rung in her head like a bell as she heard the sing progress, and at the _ignoble_ actions of Alfredo, caused her to think of his attack at the masquerade ball.

She watched with delight as Giorgio, Alfredo’s father, entered the room and renounced his son for his actions. ‘ _Di sprezzo degno sè stesso rende chi pur nell'ira la donna offende’_ Libby learned it was _‘A man, who even in anger, offends a woman renders himself deserving of contempt..”_ Which she thought rang true also. Thomas squeezed her hand, showing his approval of this statement.

Thomas watched a tear spring down his fiancé’s cheek at the final part of scene 2, when Violetta’s friends pull her away, and she exclaims (after yet another of Thomas’s translations.) _Alfredo, Alfredo, you can't understand all the love in this heart..."_ Thomas took this opportunity to lean close and to offer her his handkerchief to wipe away the tear. Which she took. Releasing his hand from her own, lifting the cloth to her face and gently dabbing it against her cheek. Seeing that the scent of it reminded her of her lover. A musky cologne that he wore on his neck, along with a fine clean soap, and the trace of mint leaf that lingered invitingly on his clothes. It was monogrammed too, no doubt at the hands of some female relative of his. A loopy ‘TK’ swirled in stitching below her fingertips. He soothingly gave her a loving look as the tears stopped.

Act 3, scene 1 revealed the tragedy that Violetta's illness had worsened. Tuberculosis, which made more tears spring to Libby’s eyes at the mention of the beastly disease that had claimed her mother. And Thomas and Libby both watched, hands re -entwined as, alone in her room, Violetta reads a letter, from Giorgio, that tells her of the happenings in Paris. That the Baron was only wounded in the ill-fated duel with Alfredo, and that he informed his son of the sacrifices that Violetta made for the sake of his daughter’s marriage. And that her love – Alfredo – would be with her soon to ask for her forgiveness. But she fears it may already have been too late… But lo and behold Thomas watched her gasp again as Alfredo burst onto the stage, and scooped Violetta up into his arms, the two lover’s reunited, exclaiming that they should leave Paris at once. And after Alfredo’s father, and the doctor enter, Giorgio wishing to express his sorrow for what he has done, Violetta sings that she knows her time is up. But after she feels revived for a moment, exclaiming that her pain and discomfort had left her, not a moment later, she died in Alfredo’s arms.

Thomas watched as she didn’t even try stemming the tears, but rather clapped along wildly, in a way young ladies ought not, and trying not to cry all the more as the final curtain came down, shrouding the stage, the lights in the theatre flickered back up, and he could better see the trails of tears ribboned down over her pale cheeks. Which she wiped away with his handkerchief, taking a moment as the theatre burst back into life with chatter and light. People down below stood, intending to leave.

“What did you think my love?”

Thomas asks, seeing as she dried her face. Loving her in that moment, for her passion.

“I adored it. It was so beautiful. As long as I live I shall remember this…”

She informed. Smiling once more across to him.

"Thank you, my darling. I cannot convey in words how much I have enjoyed this evening…” She added.

“Anything that makes you as captivated as that my dear. You needn’t thank me for. The pleasure was all mine, dear heart...” He assured her.

They stood, turning to their elders to declare what a wondrous performance it was. Mrs Sharpe looking a little watery eyed herself. They all walked back through the narrow cloakroom, seeing that their cloaks and coats had been fetched. Thomas procured Mrs Sharpe and Sir Richard’s approval to escort Elizabeth home in his own carriage. As Benedict would escort Miss Burchrowe home in his a barouche. The remaining Farrow’s would take their own carriage home.

They made their way back through the crowded theatre, heading down the large sweeping imperial staircase.

“What did you think of the performance Violet?” Elizabeth asked her friend. “Entrancing, don’t you think?”

“Well, seeing as I was conscious for it, yes. It was Marvellous...”

Violet sarrced. Benedict, who was on her arm smiled at her comment. They all six of them, the four young men and women following after the Farrow’s, were just making their way down the last set of stairs.

“I don’t think I have ever seen someone so hypnotized by a Libretti before..”

Thomas explained to Elizabeth as they slowly descended the last few steps, into the busy bustle of ladies and gentlemen escaping out of the theatre doors.

“Operatics are my weakness.” Elizabeth admitted.

“I don’t mind saying that I know every verse, of every song in Puccini’s La Bohéme, but after tonight, I think I may have found a new unyielding favourite..” She admitted.

“I’m awfully glad to hear of it…”

Thomas grinned, kissing the back of her hand, as they got to the floor, and slowly crossed the foyer to the doors. Elizabeth and Thomas watched ahead of them as Violet and Benedict stood grouped close to Mrs and Mrs Farrow, and Felicity, as they stood grouped, Mrs Sharpe had found one of her friendly matrons with which to converse. And everyone gathered to give their goodbyes, and praises for the delightful evening.

“Oh heavens…”

Elizabeth mumbled in regret.

Thomas turned his head to her.

“Mrs Sharpe has found Lady Hartwright. London’s most prized natter box. I am sorry to say, Sir, but I fear we shall be here til tomorrow morning...” Libby grinned.

“As bad as that?” Thomas asked.

“You’ve met Mrs Sharpe, have you not?” Libby asked wryly.

“The words, donkey, natter, and hind legs springs to mind...” He offered jokingly.

Elizabeth laughed, as they drew closer to her parents. Their attentions were suddenly turned by someone’s footsteps barrelling down the stairs behind them, moving quickly, and not caring whom they pushed harshly, and so rudely, out of their way.

But it was the harsh clipped shout that made everyone instantly quieted, and turn to the angered man’s voice.

“You, _UTTER BASTARD_!!!”

People gasped, and swooned at the use of such language. The foyer and the room, though packed, fell into a hush at the shouting.

Thomas snapped his head round behind him, just in time for someone’s fist to plant square into his jaw knocking him off his feet and sending him sprawling to the tiles of the theatre’s foyer. His teeth clacked together in his mouth, his vision was split into dancing stars and swirls of pain, and his head felt black bursts of sick pained horror spread through him. But after the agony subsided, white hot rage took its place.

Elizabeth gasped as Thomas crumpled to the floor beside her, torn out of her hold. And she saw none other than the angered form of a snarling Marcus Burke stood behind them. Chest pounding raggedly under his black waistcoat. As he glared hell fury at the Duke on the floor.

Elizabeth stood with wide terrified eyes as her body didn’t know how to react. Time seemed to stand still as she scanned across everyone. Her parents, the both of them, watched on the spectacle with utter horror. Felicity shrunk scared behind her father. And Benedict harshly tugged Violet behind him sharply, shielding her from Burke, and putting on the most awful glare she had ever seen. Protecting her friend from this animal of a man, who had no honour.

Thomas heaved himself up off the floor, snatching his body into towering up once more, leaning towards the man as he tried to urge Elizabeth behind him to keep her safe. Because he saw red. And he wanted to tear the ill-mannered lout, limb from limb. Libby’s mouth hung open with shock as she saw the blood from a cut leak from her beloved’s lip. Dripping down to his handsome chin. His lovely blue eyes turned so horrid, she herself almost didn’t like the glare of demonic hatred that was in them.

“You, stole _her_ , _from me_.” Burke spat out. “And I now hear of your getting engaged.”

Thomas stood, glaring at the man. His clenched tight, chest pounding, blood fired, before he stalked closer and towered with all the hell fury he could muster, looming in a most deadly rage-ful manner over the pathetic excuse for a man.

“You are a waste of skin, Sir. I declare you have no honour. Assaulting a woman and expecting her to stay loyal and silent by your side, was horror enough. But attacking me, and her, in attempts to get what you want…”

Thomas scoffed.

“You should be hanged for such contemptible behaviour. And If they weren’t to hang me for the crime, then I’d rip you apart with my own bare hands for hurting _my_ bride…”

“She’s not your bride yet. She doesn’t even wear a _ring_.” Burke sneered.

Thomas’s arm lashed out and pulled Burke close by the collar, pulling them nearly nose to nose. His snarl was deadly. And if looks could render a man dead, then Burke would have been slaughtered from the moment Thomas stood upright again.

“You are piteous. Burke. And I will not duel with a man like you, of whom has no moral principle.”

He snarled, before shoving him back so that he stumbled when he let go, and turned to Elizabeth. wanting to usher her away. 

But Burke, it appears, would not take failure so lightly. As Thomas turned ¾ of the way away, heading for Libby, and in the opposite direction to his intended party to apologize for such a disrespectful scene. Marcus Burke stepped forwards and tried grabbed her by the waist.

“I will _have you_ Elizabeth. I _will ruin you_ for what you’ve done!”

He snarled into her ear. She tried squirming away from him, her cries of pain and struggle, were the most horrible thing Thomas had ever heard, or had to hear.

Before she could register it, it was Burke’s turn to feel agony, as Thomas saw such rage he had never known such a powerful thing like it. But his fist ploughed so hard into Burke’s face, the man was knocked clean off balance, blood spurting down from under his eye, as he howled in pain and sank backwards, but still stood on his feet, trying to lunge forwards and hit Thomas again.

But the saviour to their little duel came in the most surprising form. As Thomas twisted sideways, facing to the right, two firm petite hands pushed to his chest, staggering him backwards as another body inserted themselves between the two, her back to her fiancé as he stumbled away. Burke halted as he was stopped by the lithe and furious frame of Elizabeth Farrow. Who looked like a venomous snake to his eyes. Thomas fully intended to reach forwards and snatch her away from the dangerous man who could harm her. But when he heard her speak, he dared not too.

“Mr Burke…” She hissed lowly. Snapping every word.

“Seeing as you do not possess the pride to know a thing such as etiquette. Let me enlighten you upon such a matter. The duty of the rejected suitor is _quite_ clear. Etiquette demands that he shall accept the lady’s decision as final and retire from the field. He has no right to demand the reason of her refusal. I rejected you. You may not seek why. Except I shall reward you with some reasons as to such. The reasons for my rejections we're all Because you, are a despicable, vile, disgraceful, loathsome little excuse of a man. And I am glad to be rid of you. Now leave, me and my fiancé, _alone_.”

She spat. Each word delivered from her lips to sound like a dagger in the air, slicing through the angered tension.

Burke glared at her for a long minute, before his eyes flicked to Thomas, who glared at him. Before Burke turned on his heel and left, scared people scattering out of his way. Mabel Loxley, who stood open mouthed on the stairs behind them, a vision in appalling pink, looked Elizabeth up and down with vile hatred in her eyes, before she too trotted off after Burke. In the wake of his destruction.

Elizabeth turned to Thomas. Her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Come on.”

Thomas rasped, the blood on his chin increasing by the second. Reaching out and taking of hold her hand

“I shall have my carriage brought around, this very second. I’m taking you straight home, Elizabeth.” His blue eyes, now flushed from such vehement anger, flickered out of the door where Burke had just stormed through.

“It'd be best if we get somewhere safe...” He instructed.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Victorian Etiquette states... "A Gentleman will never instigate a fight, but he will end it...." hmmm. what does that make Mr Burke then? and Thomas walked away to end it until he retaliated... Interesting...


	29. Carriage Rides, Embraces, and Loving Fiancé's...

 

 

 

~

Elizabeth nodded, moving closer to her fiancé. With her blue eyes looking more than a little moist. She nodded, and Thomas wrapped his protective and smooth hand around hers, pulling her into him, and ignoring how several hundred pairs of eyes still stuck to them. Watching whilst whispering under their breath about what had just transpired. The gossip vines and paper would be ripe with such a scandalous scene _for weeks_ , Elizabeth fancied. They barely had time to move before Mrs Sharpe was upon them both, her brows were pulled together like a pair of curtains, worry weighing down upon her coppery eyes. Nothing but motherly concern radiated from her protective yet apprehensive gaze for her beloved Libby and her soon-to-be- son in law. She gently reached out to brush Elizabeth’s wrist.

“Are you alright my dear? I must declare I am quite moved beside myself. I had no idea the man was so…horrid.”

“I am fine, Araminta, thank you…” Libby ushered in a small voice.

“And you sir, _oh,_ your lip...”

She fussed over Thomas, like he was another relative of hers. Rather than a stranger whom was marrying into their family. Thomas offered her a meek smile, eyes flickering across to Sir Richard, who looked lost for words as he continued hugging his youngest into his side. Concern too, painted plain as day all across his face for the happenstance that had just unfolded. He knew Burke was a man with whom gallantry did not register, but he had no idea the man had such violent intent about him.

“I have suffered worse than a cut lip, Mrs. Sharpe. I’m definite upon that. Now, if you will excuse me, I should wish to take Elizabeth home right this moment. Away from… _such…heavy_ scrutiny…”

Thomas ordered, eyes burning glares to the nosy mama’s, and gossip mongering gentlemen all of whose listening eyes and ears were still stood watching over them. Crowded about them still. As if it were some form of macabre entertainment to listen in upon the fact of a suitor assaulting his intended conquest. He really hated to be at the centre of such rude interest at the hands of interfering Victorian society. Especially as they saw it fit to mutter about the fact of a man attacking his beloved fiancé.

“Yes, sir, of course, we shall be leaving presently ourselves...” She informed the pair with tenderness and empathy present in her face.

It was at this point that Elizabeth turned to her closest friend, Violet, and Sir Carlton stood just to their left. Looking every bit as anxious as Mrs. Sharpe and Sir Farrow had. Violet’s hazel eyes were wide with upset, and sparkled in the sparse candlelight. And Sir Carlton instantly stepped forwards and inclined his head towards his friend, and Miss Elizabeth.

“You’ll be alright I trust? I’ll have Perkin’s see to your lip upon your return, and allow me to presume to have a large glass of whiskey standing by should you need it...”

Benedict spoke softly to Thomas, who nodded. Benedict’s hand patting his shoulder in a grateful manner. Unable to say anything more. They were bonded as close as brothers. Nothing more had to be said between them.

“I can’t believe he did such a wicked thing to you, Elizabeth, and you, Sir Thomas…” Violet spoke gently. Eyes switching from one to the other of her friends, her voice breaking with realization of how awful Burke really was… How he had shown his true colours to them all.

Elizabeth nodded. Suddenly feeling such gratefulness for Thomas being in her life - saving her from otherwise having to marry that beastly lout - swell up inside her to such a large degree, it nearly dwarfed her every emotion. Grateful sentiment make her throat thick with the oncoming bite of joyful appreciative tears ready to choke her. Elizabeth reached out and squeezed her friend’s gloved hand tight in a soothing and restful gesture. Violet was then reminded of how strong and brave her friend could tend to be. Because she smiled gently.

“I shall see you soon? Tomorrow night? At Lady Landworthy’s Ball?” Elizabeth asked.

Violet nodded, holding her friends hand back with just as much affectionate measure.

Elizabeth gave a docile and mild smile, her expression somewhat reigned in as she allowed Thomas to loop his arm through hers, and swiftly walked her away, out of the foyer doors and onto the cool midnight air of the dark street. Thomas turned his head to her, and squeezed her hand tight, she tilted her head up towards him. Biting her lip at the sight of his injury once again. And how she had been the cause of it.

Elizabeth could see that his eyes scanned down the row of carriages, until they glimmered in recognition of a sleek dark carriage fifth in the row down from them. It looked large and foreboding, nestled amongst the other smaller town carriages. This one looked high and sprung enough to cope with the bumpy tracks and roads to Derbyshire. It looked exactly like the rich country gentry’s barouche that it was. Thomas smoothly glided them both towards it. Nodding a curt good evening to the footmen and driver, whom seemed to startle at their Duke’s disheveled and bleeding condition.

“34 Montague Street, if you’d be so good Ramsey...”

Thomas spoke to the portly driver, who tipped his hat, offering a soft smile to Elizabeth. Who returned it before Thomas helped sweep her into the carriage with the assistance of his hand.

“Right away, Mi’lord…” He spoke back. His voice a gruff country twang.

After she was safely nestled into the plush and ever comfortable furnished carriage, she slid across the enormously luxurious red velvet seating, to allow her husband to slide in beside her. Which he did. As effortlessly as if he was taking a stride in the park. Enough to tell Libby that he was familiar with the routine of getting in and out seamlessly of the high carriage. He settled next to her, rapping the roof twice, which signaled to the driver to lurch the coach into motion. They gently rolled into action. Taking them away from the lit theatre into the darkness of the finely attired coach. Fading into semi darkness, the only light coming from the barely visible moon, and a few street lamps which they passed, slicing through the small gaps of the closed drapes across the windows. Elizabeth watched silently as the light of such illuminated the impassive and bleeding face of her fiancé, who stared straight ahead. Not breathing a word.

Elizabeth suddenly had a thought, she looked down to her folded lap into her tiny little black velvet reticule. Which she snapped open, reaching inside to tug out a small white square of fabric that had been bestowed on her earlier in the evening by the good grace of her beloved. Thomas’s eyes switched to her as she braced herself up, and crossed quickly to the opposite seat, sitting down so their knees brushed very firmly together, her skirts getting tangled in amongst his long folded legs. As she leaned close, watching as he turned to her, and she softly pressed the corner of his handkerchief to stem the blood which leaked down to his chin, He closed his eyes, wincing at the soothing pressure, of which pained him. If only a little. When he opened them again a second later, he saw his betrothed's beautiful features examine him tender worry across from where he sat. Her eyes watery and upset that she had seen him pained for her benefit.

“I am so sorry, Thomas.” She said in a timid voice. Tears threatening to break her even tone.

Thomas shook his head, his eyes hard as stone.

“Never in a million centuries should you be apologizing for what unfolded tonight, my darling...” He ordered, cupping her small hand in his own as she pressed it to his face.

She didn’t seem to falter in her apology. Because she was just that headstrong when it came to such matters as this.

“But. I, I concealed the truths of his revolting behaviour for my own shame of being courted by him. Had I been a bit less reticent, and wall flowered… If only I had spoken out against his nature, then maybe we could have avoided it coming to such violent climax-“

Her words drowned in her throat as he inched forwards, bracing on the edge of his seat to cup her cheek in his hand. Dwarfing any further attempts she would make.

“Elizabeth…”

He spoke, his lips gently curving into a small loving smile. “I think I shall hereby have to declare my first decree unto you, my future wife…” He explained, his eyes turning hot, but still kind as he looked at her.

His free hand tucked back to slide to the left side of her petite waist, of which his arms fitted so perfectly against. As he pulled her lithe body closer to him.

“Never apologize for the scandalous actions of others. My dear. It is beyond your fault. And I implore you to listen to your husband when he wants to kiss you senseless...” He growled lowly.

All the breath left her lungs in one quick second.

Elizabeth had been told all her life that the streets of London were perilous. But no one, not once, had ever warned her of what dangers lurked inside a nobleman’s carriage. Especially since her husband to be, was now staring her down like he was a huge hungered lion, and she was a tiny feeble little gazelle, ripe for his plucking.

It made her knees weak to think that she truly was prostrate under such a handsome desirous gaze of his. And particularly as she prided herself on being so thoroughly level headed and sensible.

She could only watch, as his helpless prey, as he leaned but a few more inches forwards, and moulded his lips onto hers. She barely had time to digest his words before his lips captured her own in a swooping kiss. Making her mind flush of all reasonable thought, she could not bring herself to protest any further as she sunk further and deeper into his body. Curling up into him in a way that had become so familiar to them both. His body tipped over, brushing against hers, pinning her to the bench, the one hand that had caressed to the left of her waist, slid fully around her back now, squeezing her torso close to his, his spare hand pressed to the side of the coach as he reeled her further down into the spiral of lust that had them both wrapped up so thoroughly in his kiss.

What makes his break away, was a weak little groan from her lips. A squeak of protest as her hand stroked over an excellently sharp cheekbone.

“Your lip…”

She gasped, catching her breath that he had kissed away. In the darkness, her fire coloured hair had strayed a few coils free of its pins, looking a dark auburn in the half light, but her eyes and lips both looked affected by his passions. Her eyes, once teary and sad, were now burning and wild. And her lips were wounded from such lustful sentiment. Gleaming wet and red as he unleashed such furious love on her.

“Doesn’t it hurt you?”

Elizabeth groaned, pulling away for a tiny second after her hauled her close.

“Not when I’m kissing you…”

He growled. Because that was god’s truth. When he was kissing her, he could not care what time of day it was. Whom else wanted his attentions. When he was kissing his Elizabeth, he cared about little else. Heck, Britain could have been about to be invaded by France, But if He was kissing his Wife-to-be, then frankly, they’d be welcome to it, for all he cared.

He then brought their tangled form of bodies back to collapse onto his bench, heaving her form atop his body, cradling her in his arms, letting her lovely legs fold over his right bent leg, picking her up and bringing her down onto his own lap as if she weighed no more than a dried leaf. His lips sealed to her own once more. She was left with no choice but to link her arms about the back of his neck, squeaking lightly at the rapid shift of position, her fingers toying with the straight strands of midnight black hair, which curled there against his nape where she held onto him. Of which, when her fingers curled through, delightfully caressing his neck, it made him shudder a hot breathy rasp of a moan onto her lips, squeezing her tighter as a consequence. His hands stealing about her thighs, and the other sliding up her dress, slipping onto the heated patch of her bare back as he moaned. His hips fighting to not undulate into her, bucking like mad as he got so shamefully aroused, it shouldn’t be allowed. Not whilst they still had to wait a week to be wed. Whilst they booked the church, secured a Vicar, shopped for the bride’s and bridesmaids dresses, and he had his wedding suit tailored. He didn’t want to wait a second longer, to make he his, and get her back to Chatsworth. Not even letting her round a tour of her new home before he dragged her to their bed and claimed her there. Over and over, for hours and hours. Without fear of scandal, or being disturbed. And then maybe, finally, he could sate the need for her, which was damn near driving him _out_ of his godforsaken, usually courteous and exceptionally pragmatic mind.

Because the way he was kissing her now, made her know that he didn’t just love her, he needed her. His kisses were starving pleas of showing her how badly he needed to be hers. And how badly he wanted her to be his. And it was something to which she was only all too happy to comply. And the sinfully wonderful feelings of need and hot want he was awakening in her, she didn’t feel like they were scandalous, like she had been brought up all her life to believe as such. That kissing, and love making out of wedlock was an utter sin and a scandalous action of the worst kind. But when he touched his lips to hers, or skimmed his hand to gently brush the back of her waist, it didn’t feel like such a wicked thing, as she was led all her life to believe. Matter of fact, it was truly the polar opposite. It was wonderful. His kisses didn’t blacken her with rotting sin, they gave her spirit, and they made her breathless, made her feel as if she was angelically beautiful under such praises from him.

Her eyes fluttered open as he pulled away, sinking his hand into her hair, sure of the fact that such a deed was ascertain to have dislodged a great number of pins from her carefully achieved hair style. But as it then allowed him to comb his wonderfully long fingers through her hair, and tug her lips further onto his, latching his fingers to her coppery hair to keep her exactly where she was. So he could lavish more lust and love onto her. Cupping the back of her waist, bringing her body ever closer to his, so that no spare millimetre of space was allowed to exist between them. And the way every elegant curve of her arched against him, made him wonder if taking her right now, in the back of a moving coach was really of the wisest venture. His lips tilted away from her as he tried to drag some sense and some sweet air into his lungs, the room around them in the coach around them thick with body heat and hot lusty want, the definable scent of lust hanging in the air. He needed to catch some breath before lust swallowed him up whole. And where Thomas Kenworthy, His Lordship, the Duke of Chatsworth once sat, in his place, there would be nothing but an animal, and a scoundrel of a man who seduced his fiancé into sordid exploitations.

“Elizabeth…”

He began in a strict order, swallowing air into his lungs, his voice a desiring husk of its former self as he nibbled on the delicacy that was her soft skin, sitting just below her small little ear. His hot breath made her skin thrash and shake like a volcanic eruption of heat. Letting her know her cheeks were so pink because of it. All she could do in answer, was arch, moan as her lips grew into a smile, and she titled and craned her neck to the side to allow him greater access… He kissed her with such fervent love, Elizabeth couldn’t quite explain it. The feelings he instilled in her. It was like someone had heated her blood. It started in her heart when he kissed her, then swept through her arms, her legs and her entire being. He kissed her and kissed her, harder and harder, until she was sure he couldn’t get much more of her, yet he still managed too. His lips could grow hungrier. They nibbled, they caressed, and loved, and worshipped every inch he could manage, and took all the time in the world to map out her skin. Her skin and the very centre of her body grew needy and wanting for his lips and his hands to be upon her. She took advantage of a small second when he pulled away from layering kisses onto her neck, to let her wits return to her, and to let the burning and intense, urgently hot passion, to drain away whilst his lips left her, to answer his order…

“Y-yes…”

She managed to get out, gasping for more, before his lips found a hidden spot south of her ear, on the side of her throat, which when his lips brushed it, made her buck forwards, curling up to him as his tongue tantalized the spot, his lips puckering love onto her there, seeing it made her bite down her lip. Such tingling heat thrashing through her, she wondered how she had ever counted herself as alive and living without feeling this exquisite rush of heady delight, and pleasure.

“I need to tell you something…”

He moaned in a wanting groan. His voice so low, is could have struck the earth’s molten core. His lips moving so sinfully against her neck as he spoke, so she could _feel_ every word as he spoke. His hands skimmed along her hot bare back. Her burning blue eyes swept open to find his as he stared her down with need, lingering away in his Irises. The ice blue of them melting, with speckled lust making her loose her breath at the sight of such raw tenderness.

“I really do love the gown you wore to attend the opera with me this evening. But I have a little secret that I have not elected to tell you, until now…” He spoke with easy lust.

“Which is?”

She groaned, her mouth dropping open into a groaning wide ‘O’ shape as her eyes fluttered shut at his attentions, in how wickedly his lips could reduce her to silence as they pecked their way down over her exposed collarbone, dragging his tongue across the dips in her clavicle, firing her blood once more.

She felt his nose nuzzle into the stray coils of her curled hair that hung down from the back of her neck, kissing up the underside of her jaw, getting the sweet scent of lavender in her hair, dancing into his senses, tantalizing him. Coaxing him on. Her hands had slid down, and gripped the edge of his shirt, dislodging his excellently tied cravat from its knot, as her petite little hands found a gap at his neck, sliding under the collar of his heavenly soft velvet waistcoat, to find the even softer heat of his upper back, her fingers stroking and sliding down his spine, loving the nearly scorching heat of his skin that branded her fingertips as she met it. He smiled in desire as she nearly tugged the front of his pressed shirt open, ripping the buttons apart, so he felt the back of his shirt, of which was safely tucked into his breeches, ride up his lower back as she dislodged it from its place, but, she couldn’t solely be accused of such scandalous advances, because he had in mind to do the same to her. Which he did, just as her hands explored his back. His grew ever bored with just having to satisfy themselves with what lay above the cut of her gown. His fingers found the collar of her delightfully beautiful evening dress, and looped it to slide further down her arms than they already did, it did cut to rest on her shoulder already, but the way in which he yanked it, left it nearly at her elbows, better allowing him to see the unhindered view of her corset, as her exquisite bosom heaved with the lust they shared. He delighted at hearing her gasp in surprise as he tugged her gown down, to loop down low at her elbows, baring her corseted bust to his eyes, right in front of him. Ripping her clothes from her in a filthily wonderful way. His burning eyes met hers once more.

“Which is… that you look _far lovelier_ in nothing at all…”

He rasped, leaning forwards to nuzzle his face perilously close to her breasts, kissing down the valley of the wonderful things which he nuzzled so lovingly against. His hot breath forming shivers of burning want, and goose flesh ripple across her skin, even though she was perfectly warmed through. Flushed from head to toe as a consequence of their amorous engagements. He could see it creep down her slender neck, and flourish upon her supple chest. Tinting her usually pale skin a deep pink. Her ivory skin flushed with desire for him. With the desire he was causing.

He kissed her, there, several times. His lips travelling from peak to peak. From the upper swell of one breast, to the other. The tops of them pushed up and bared beautifully by the confines of her tight laced corset that bracketed her marvellous body inside it. Confining the shapes of her natural beauty in a way that he hated. His second decree, when they were married, was that he would want her to wear corsets less and less when they were at home together. And if she did have to obey this rule, then he would be the one to unlace it from her, to slowly pull the ribbons out of each of their imprisoned button holes, gently undoing one row, all the while lapping, nibbling, licking and puckering kisses onto her lovely creamy soft shoulders, and then tenderly moving down further and further through the ribbons, unfastening, until there were none left, and he could let the shell of the strict garment fall to the floor, forgotten. To shed her out of the cursed thing, and to leisurely and deliberately drink her in as he did, would be his utter privilege as her husband. To remove her of her clothing, and strip her of her sweet modesty. Which was undoubtedly something of which he found so ashamedly alluring, but when they were to be man and wife, naked together, prone to absolute lusting madness in their bed, and she blushed and shied away from him telling her how beautiful she was, averting her eyes from his own. He didn’t want that reaction from her. He wanted her to sigh, and gasp his name in delirium heights of pleasure as he took her, scraping his teeth across her ticklish neck as she exploded into a scream, moaning at how she believed him for his absolute truths of compliments. How she should now _always_ be prone to believing him when he purred praises in odes to her beauty, directly into her ear. Scorching her neck with his blistering breath rolling down deliciously over her throat. Making her shiver in that way he so liked to achieve.

Elizabeth watched, groaning, as his cleverly skilled lips delved lower, like they had done the other afternoon in the study, kissing lower and lower until she was sure she’d perish from the sensations which he caused to erupt hot across her like fire. She could not deny how feral his usual gentlemanly façade looked now. He looked like a starved beast. His skin too a little flushed and hot to the touch, the milk skinned complexion he had looked divine when prone to going rosy at such lust. The way his inky hair swung down into his eyes suggested he was more a scandalous rake, than a gentle suitor. His lips, _his lovely lips_ , which could render her weak, the way they grew wide into a melting smile, were puckered onto her skin, but they too looked red and air starved, having been ravenously attacked by her own. Plus the cut grazed onto his lips from Burke’s fist made him appear all that more untamed too. Like a savagely incontrollable and undomesticated man, branded with all-consuming ardor for _her_ and _solely her alone_. Along with his burning blue eyes. Why, it was all she could do not to drift away to heaven at seeing him in such a state.

As he grunted and moaned, gasping for more of her, for more of the feel of her silky hot skin against his lips. Thomas adored the fact with each occasion when they were alone, _like this_ , in a way that society would deem at the most _wicked_ encounter, that with each following kiss from the very first time his lips had touched hers, she had blossomed to become a sensual woman under his touch. She was no longer prone to staying still beneath him, _‘allowing a man his pleasure from her, as all she need do was to stay perfectly still underneath him’_ as she had very probably been taught to do all her life, after having had a _‘talk’_ with Mrs Sharpe when she had come of age, of what man and wife did, in their bedchambers. He loved that now, after having acclimatized her beautiful body to learn that passion was most definitely _not_ wicked, it was pleasurable in almost _every good_ way. Because now, when they kissed, and loved each other, she would layer as much love onto him as she was capable. She would tangle her fingers in his thick hair, or stroke and slip her hands to his shoulders. And as they had been vertical the other day, on the sofa in the library, pressed to one another in passion, he had been unable to escape noticing how her hips had undulated, brushing up to clip his as she bucked to his body in ecstasy. She was no demure Miss. She was wild, and filled to the brim with passion for him. Unable to tame what he had awoken in her so easily.

Had they more time, he’d strip her of her clothes right here, and now. And repeat the little encounter which they had shared together the other day. Guiding her pleasure to a climax with his clever _clever_ fingers. But, a little niggling, nagging and infuriatingly correct voice at the back of his head, told him that it would not take all that much time for the coach to travel on the deserted midnight roads, back to her home on Montague Street. And if they got there soon, with him having nearly ripped her gown off her, to pool nearly at her waist now. Allowing him to see the whale-boned finery of her black laced corset, her fabulously full breasts straining with each rapid breath of hers, and also for his lips to be upon them. To make her quiver when he would suck her rosy peaks into his hot, wet mouth. To make her arch and curl up, as if she could mold herself into his body. If they arrived there, with the carriage door thrown open to the sight of both of them in such a state, they’d be in for the high jump should they be discovered _like this._

 _But then again..._ He thinks… _That would see them married by tomorrow afternoon. And then he’d wait but only one day to get her into his bed to lay claim to her body as his right by marriage as her husband._ But then again, he could never besmirch her honour like that. Not his Elizabeth. He would die before he saw her ruined.

Thomas groaned, his hand sliding from up her neck, cupping the back of her head. Feeling how her wonderfully soft body brushed so wantonly and invitingly against his _stiff_ desire. As she moved her hips, her body grazed against his lap in a way that made it impossible for him to think, let alone speak. But he bit his lip, and soldiered on through his words. Despite the way his fiancés body touching so pleasingly against his hardness made him want to devour her. He _still_ \- somehow - managed to find his vocabulary, through such exquisite torture.

“”My God, I want you…” He groaned onto her lips in a gush of hot breath. “I want to strip you bare, lay you down, sink into you and never let you go, Elizabeth…” He groans.

She reached up to take his face in her smooth hand. Thumbing over one of his sharpened cheekbones.

“When we are married, I shall want nothing more...” She explained with tender lust. Her voice damaged from the lust.

“As much as I don’t want to let you go, it pains me to say that I must…”

He swallows, sitting up, and pulling her gown up over her beautiful body again. Slowly stroking it up so it rested on the place where it had once sat down by her shoulders. His hands skimming over her skin after replacing it up to her chest. Looking down, seeing that his own clothing had been dishevelled by her wandering hands. He smirked at that.

“You seem to have made quite a state of me, yourself, My Lady…” Thomas winked. The move clipping the strength from Libby’s knees, but it made her smile nonetheless.

Then, sure enough almost as if Thomas had predicted it, the carriage swerved to one side, and gently rolled to a stop. Indicating that it had pulled up, flush to the pavement of the Farrow’s townhouse. Ramsey rapped on the roof to inform them of the arrival. SO courteous as to know an unchaperoned lady and gentleman left alone would be in a somewhat state of disarray. Elizabeth felt the carriage judder to a shaky stop, as she sat back, fixing her gown, and trying to pile her coiled hair back into her chignon, trying not to make it look as if she had a gentleman’s hands twined through it at some point in the night. As she struggled with her task, Thomas’s fingers found her chin, and chucked her head up level with his, mostly to get a look at her lovely eyes once more, and to survey over the dark love mark he had sucked onto her neck when he was busy not being careful in kissing her. It was just under her ear, so hopefully, it wouldn’t be easily found by Araminta’s searching eyes. But he smirked on discovering this, a tiny little dominating part of him liked that she bore the brand of his lips on her skin.

“May I call upon you tomorrow, at noon?” He asks.

Elizabeth smiled. But she bit her lip. “Whilst I would adore nothing better than such, I fear Mrs Sharpe planned to escort me to Lady Buchannan’s to see to having my wedding dress commissioned, and tailored.” She explained shyly.

“How I’d curse that little outing if I wasn’t so utterly thrilled at the fact you are going to have your wedding dress designed. It only reminds me that I am to be the disastrously lucky man to get the privilege to wed you in it...” He smiled.

“Besides, I too have a few errands of my own to run tomorrow anyway. Plus Benedict wants to drag me to Whites for a spot of gambling, and drinking as per my ‘stag’ gathering.” He groaned with dread.

“…But I shall be doing nothing but dreaming of your lips and kisses the whole while...” He explained, sitting close and letting his calloused yet smooth thumb brush over her full lips. Feeling her lovely smile better as it pulled her lips wide.

“Will you be in attendance to Lady Landworthy’s ball tomorrow eve?” She asks.

He grinned. “I shall now. I know you and Violet are appearing. Which by extension means Benedict will trail along after me because of her going.” He grinned.

“A more fearsome couple to behold, I cannot fathom…” Elizabeth smiled.

“Indeed. Wise words my dear...”

Thomas quirked a brow, showing her he agreed. Before his eyes caught something tangling in the light, laying on the velveteen scarlet floor of his carriage. Her hairclips. He leaned down, scooping them up, and pressing them into her hand. To which she thanked him with a sweet kiss to his lips. Her hand holding his cheek as she leaned in.

When she pulled back, he was delighted to see her cheeks were still pink, and she looked like she never wanted to stop kissing him. Which was a fact that was most becoming on her, he decided. With final overruling conviction on the matter.

“You needn’t see me to the door.”

Her eyes raked down to take in his now floppy and drooping cravat which she had undone for him. Unfastening it from its pristinely suitable knot. He adored the lust he found in her eyes as she examined him in such a way.

“I shan’t think any less of your gentlemanly honour for not escorting me there. Your state is somewhat, _rumpled._..and heaven forfend should anyone in the household witness you in such a manner.”

She explained with a wink of her own that sapped the strength from his knees. And made him want to fiercely grab and kiss her again.

“You are sure you do not mind, darling?” He asked. Unable to not act on his bone bred chivalry.

“I insist upon it. Wifely orders...”

She explained, leaning forwards to press another sweet goodnight tender kiss to his lips, which left him moaning for more when she pulled away.

“Thank you for a most, wonderful evening, Thomas darling. And from the bottom of my heart for protecting me from Burke…” She whispered softly.

“We both know you didn’t need my protection tonight, Elizabeth. I admire that fire you have in you for defending us so passionately.” He spoke in tender admiration.

“I’d defend our love with my dying breath…” She explained.

Thomas grinned. Shaking his head in utter rapture at this beautifully amazing creature. Who would soon be all his to admire.

“I adore you, my dear lovely Elizabeth. Sweet dreams darling…”

He hushed when he was able to speak, watching as she smiled, gracing it upon him one last time before she slid away, into the cool night air. He watched as Willard, the second footman, held her hand in helping her down, as she held her skirts and reticule out of her way. Her cloak balled up in her hands. She thanked Willard with a graceful little compliment that left the man beet red and watching her walk away to the warmth and comfort of home.

Thomas watched as she quickly crossed the pavements, seeing that their excellently stubborn mouthy blonde Ladies maid, and Elizabeth’s good friend, Nessie, was awaiting her return from the front door. Arms folded across her moss green chest, white apron streaked with stains which he could only imagine had got there from helping cook in the kitchens. Her blonde hair pulled in a tumbleweed atop her head. Mouth split into a grin as she saw Elizabeth appear, disheveled and all rosy cheeked, from his carriage. Her hair an absolute mess, no matter how hard she tried to rectify and repeat its once pristine state. Thomas had leaned close out of the door, watching as his wife to be slid away, up the steps, and coming to her ladies maid.

“I take it you had a lovely evening. Riding alone in carriages with ‘andsome dukes, who, by the way is still starin’ at your back as I speak...” Nessie asked with a rascal’s wink.

“The opera was, mesmerizing, and Thomas was, as ever, an utter gentleman...”

Elizabeth smiled to her friend. Her blue eyes so in love, and her cheeks so red and flustered. And none of it had to do with the cold of the night air. She turned and caught the loving gaze her fiancé gave her, along with a gentle wink, before he pulled the carriage door shut, and asked Ramsey to take him to Sir Carlton’s residence. He’d walk back to the townhouse from the mews on Bloomsbury Way.

Nessie and Elizabeth watched the carriage roll away down the street, off into the night.

“Don’t try lyin’ to me Farrow. ‘Gentlemanly’ my bloomers. He had his hands in your hair and I fancy I am not at all wrong...” Nessie smirked.

Elizabeth blushed. Her hand going to the back of her red hair.

Nessie barked out a clip of laughter as her friend examined her hem sheepishly.

“Come on. I won’t tell Mrs Sharpe. Maids Honour…” Nessie grinned.

Elizabeth turned to her friend.

“There’s a new gown in it for you to sweeten your silence. You could wear it to the wedding...My powder blue chiffon no longer fits about my bust. I saw you eyeing it up the other day when Briggs pressed it..” Elizabeth bribed.

Nessie twitched a wry sideways smirk at her friend.

“God bless ya’ sweet mistress. Now come inside, it’ ruddy cold. And Araminta’ll have me head if you catch another ailment so soon after the last...”

“Dually noted..” Elizabeth remarked as she slid inside.

Elizabeth and Nessie carried themselves across the foyer. Nessie shutting the front door, pressing her back to the huge slab of wood.

“Don’t suppose you’ll join me in a cup of hot cocoa this late?” Elizabeth asked Nessie.

“That sounds like ‘Eaven. Farrow.”

Nessie grinned. Both ladies sweeping their aching feet towards the kitchens to partake in a sugary treat before they both went to bed. And this would allow Nessie the cut direct of the gossip of the evening. Of which – it had to be said – she would not be disappointed. Brutal confrontations at opera houses, fervent and impassioned kisses and tumbles in carriages with handsome Dukes. The knowledge that Thomas had nearly gotten into a fistfight with a man over her. Seduction, Romance, Duels and Operatics.

Well. It was safe to announce that the night’s events left Elizabeth wondering at _what_ earthly point in time her life had become a penny novelette…

 

~


	30. Ball's, Batty Relatives, and Traps...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoy, and also, I'm sorry
> 
> _ author 
> 
> x

   

 

   

 

 (best gown yet, I adore this one! ^^^^)

 

 

 

 

 ~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lady Landworthy was famed throughout London Society, for one, having a veritable mansion of a townhouse on Bruton Street, which led to the fact that she was also famous for secondly, filling such an expansive space with room upon room of fine paintings and statues, which led to three, she was correspondingly a very rich woman who had a rarity of kindness and good nature about her, that not many others would bare should they possess her great wealth.

As such, the ball that she held was every inch quickly turning out to be the most renowned party of the entire season. No expense had been spared. And the wonderful high domed ceiling linked off to a small orangery, which had been strung with golden ribbons and elegant candlelit chandeliers dotted all around. The heat of the room was pleasing, and just warm enough when one considered the number of men and women who gracefully whirled a polka around the dance floor. Thomas stood off to one side, impatiently awaiting the arrival of his lovely fiancée, and her wonderfully reputable friend, Miss Violet. He knew doubtlessly that Mrs Sharpe and Felicity would by extension be invited too. Benedict had accompanied him, they had discussed as such when Thomas had dragged his body back to Bloomsbury street last night, awaiting a grinning inapt smirk from Benedict as to why his appearance was so rumpled, as he handed the man a much needed three fingers of whiskey, which, after Thomas downed instantly, had been refilled with haste. Not needing as to ask why. If it helped him sleep, able to forget how madly he wanted his wife, and how much his lip pained him. If Sir Thomas dreamt last night, he did not remember it, at all. His friend had slunk into hiding the second they stepped through the ballroom doors. Stooping to keep his head low, and ducking and weaving through the crowds to escape the clutches of the poisonously tenacious likes of Sophie Richworth. Whom stomped away angrily, huffing as to the fact he had stated his attendance, but she could not find hide nor hair of him anywhere for the life of her. Her usual crowd of followers, two plain brunettes, trailed after their pack leader in the wake of her hissy anger. Thomas gladly watched her go, stood to one side of the ballroom.

He himself had long since perfected the art of moving with purpose through a ballroom to avoid the wickeder mama’s and silly frilly girls of London society. (He had been unfortunate enough last year to get stuck in a bear trap of a conversation with the aged Lady Atwood, and her more than simple daughter. He could recall their exact conversation had shifted painfully from lace, to ribbons, to dresses, and then banal remarks about the weather. Which when he remarked he thought the weather was turning inclement. She had replied; _I would not know sir, I have never been to clement.._.) And ever since such painful conversations, he know had perfected the art of using his stoic impassive towering height to survey up above the crowds, trying his level best to ward off silly girls and even sillier mama’s with the ice in his eyes and his expression that had become his safest defense from such things. Of course, he would soften his glares if there was a wallflower or two that needed a dance. But should a repugnant chit approach him, all simpers and flutters of eyelashes, she would have to have a nerve and bravado the size of the Atlantic to survive his cool glare, and remain in his company. The best offence the Duke had to hand was his sharp gaze, and to keep his chin tilted high, scanning above the crowds as he did now. Watching the double doors, waiting for his loveliest betrothed to slide through them sometime soon.

The crowds in front of him shifted and moved, and he found a small party of giggling women and idiotic bachelors saunter by him, their heights obscuring his view for a second, scampering quickly to get away before him.

That was before he felt something hard clip against the tender point of his war injury to his right thigh. Sat high on his femur, knowing that the people must have been jostled about roughly if they were to come so close as to disturb him. But after a small wince crossed his features, and the crowds parted about him, he heard an elderly gruff of a stern women’s voice leap to his ears.

“What is with the _wincing?_ Kenworthy. I barely clipped you. Don’t be such a _Sissy..._ ”

Came an imperious boom of a voice that could strike dread to all men and women throughout all of London society. He held still for a second, before peering down to his right. Because he knew that voice, and he was wise enough to know that there was no escaping it. That’s why the gaggle of men and women had dispersed so quickly with such haste. They longed to be away from this old dragon of a matron…

With a small smile he looked down to see the small wrinkled old face of Lady Philomena Millicent Mannering, of whom had been terrifying the British Isles since early man walked the earth. – Or so it seemed – everyone swore she had been alive to see the Magna Carta signed by the Baron’s. Which would not surprise Thomas _in the slightest._ She also happened to be Benedict’s Mother’s great Aunt from some far off lineage in the Carlton family tree. But she so adored her Second Nephew, Benedict, and his friend Thomas, something _wicked_.

Her wrinkled face contradicted her feisty and brutal nature which she was so known for. Perhaps sometimes edging on the punitive side of brutal scrupulousness. But, Thomas must admit, she was a most amusing woman. She spoke pure truth as a consequence of reaching the age she had managed to cling tooth and claw too. She said what she liked, and damned the silly magnitude of her words.

Thomas _adored_ her.

“I am well aware of such, Lady Mannering. It is a mere wound to my thigh that ails me...”

He explained with a sincere smile. Feeling he could speak the utmost truth to her. That was the wonderful thing about addressing someone such as her. He found he too could not vouch such concern for what they discussed. It could stray into sordid topics and it would not matter one bit to the both of them. Sir Thomas wagered there was more sense in this elderly woman than in all of Whitehall and Parliament put together.

Lady Mannering _harrumphed_ loudly at his words, thumping her weapon (others might have called it a walking cane, but he knew her far better than that) on the floor.

“Gone and fell off your horse, ey?”

She asked, raising one brow. That one move telling her she was straying dangerously close to finding him boring. Thomas knew she would grow quickly tired of a conversation unless it shifted into shady areas of scandal and shock. Because, at her age, she had once barked to him, she had suffered through enough painful conversations about the weather and society to feel inclined to put her head through a brick wall. Or better yet, one of the empty headed _gels_ who flounced about the room around them.

“No. as a matter of fact I-“

He began. But he knew better than to think he could go on without being interrupted by her.

She had, as she rightfully pointed out before, not time for being patient. ‘ _Any breath could be my last you know. Why should I waste my time on perseverance, my heart’s not what it used to be, it is frail you know.’_ Which Thomas highly doubted, he was confident that her powerfully thumping heart was destined to _out beat_ all of their own.

“Tripped down the stairs? Though that is _most dull_. I must say. Dropped a bottle on your foot, twisted it whilst out hunting? Dog bite?”

Then her expression grew sly, as her wrinkled sunken eyes caught sight of the red welt to his lips. Knowing that an injury such as that could not be caused by a silly little thing such as a mistake. Unless the fool had taken up catching flying knifes with his teeth like they did in circus acts. But, the straight laced man was far too sensible for such a venture.

“Upon my word. Your lip, sir, _is cut_. I say. You were fighting, over _a woman_ , I wager…It’s always over a woman with men nowadays…”

She predicted slyly, her little beady intelligent eyes narrowing as she leaned closer, inspecting the man whom towered several feet above her with alacrity. Those wizened eyes not missing a thing. As she drew near, he caught an overwhelming scent of peppermint oil and talcum powder, the scent so strong it burned his nostrils. She must have _marinated_ in the cosmetics for the aroma to appear so strong.

He fought the urge to cross his arms down at her. In typical manner, she was not letting him slide a word in edgeways. She liked poking fun at her companions. As per her steadfast diet of saying what she pleased with blissful impunity. He then leaned down and stayed close, speaking with such gravity to the small shrunken frame of the old woman.

“I was attacked, matter of fact, last night at the opera, by Marcus Burke. And as for my leg. It is a war wound, Lady Mannering. I saw action at Sevastopol in 1854. In Her majesty’s 10th Royal Hussars. My femoral artery was torn open by three enemy bullets…”

He offered with great exemption and details of gore as to his tone that _even she_ , would _admire_.

It was perhaps the only time in her long _long_ life that Thomas had ever seen her stunned into silence. He would have said that the elderly woman paled, but she was already so colorless to begin with, he would not take such safe assurance on the matter. She let out a staccato grunt which told him sordid details of his life had amused her immensely.

“War wound, _ey?_ Brave lad. I bet you could have many young airheaded gels flocking to you for that. The wounded war hero. Those mama’s would _eat you alive_ should they know of it.” She offered.

Thomas grinned.

“Which I why I am ever glad they do not. And I would very much value your silence upon the matter… I have not even told my fiancée of my war history yet…” He added.

She smiled up at him, and he knew she was enjoying being let in on his secrets as a trusted Allie. But whomever would dare go against _her_ , he declared had to have nerves of steel. Never mind the Infantry for England’s defense. They should just have this withered old battle axe stood on the Dover coast. That would quash any advancing Navy’s or armies attempt to take and invade England. One glimpse at this old biddy and her weapon of a walking stick, and the advancing armies would run shrieking like little girls back to their countries of origin for the fear of her.

“You don’t say?”

She asked, clearly impressed. He should have been beyond proud for that. Shrunken little eyes, glittering black like sunken raisins, alight with macabre curiosity.

“…And as for the punch. I will snub you right away if you tell me you did not wallop Burke right back. The lout deserves no less. And as for the fiancée, I can only surmise that the fight was because of a woman after all. So I _was_ right. How _wonderfully sordid_. Good on you, my boy. That’s the best piece of gossip I’ve been treated with _in decades_ …” She grinned.

He bowed lightly.

“So glad I was able to entertain you, my lady.” He smirked.

“I should think so. My preferred second Nephew’s not auspicious enough to come to greet his favourite great aunt. As so he should be. When I see him I shall plant my cane on his foot for _such_ insolence...”

She moaned. Thomas grinned, she was the only relative of his who could put him in place. He also felt he needed warn Benedict to stop hiding from Miss Richworth, and come directly as to greet Lady Mannering. Lest he find she clips him across the head, and drags him out of his hiding place by the top of his ear, like a ten year old boy who had been caught red handed at misbehaving.

“He is about the ballroom somewhere, Lady Mannering.” Thomas spoke. Seeing her dark eyes glitter up at him. “You know, I think he is still hiding from a certain debutante who has quite set her cap for him...”

“Still the Richworth chit?” She asked.

Thomas smirked, nodding.

“The very one. Still as _nasty_ as ever there was a horrid girl with a sharp unkind tongue.” He offered.

“She’s not worth _my_ time of day, let alone _his_...”

She offered holding her head aloft with a regal sniff.

Thomas crossed his hands behind his back, smiling down at her. He liked her immensely. She spoke the utter truth.

“So?” She urged, still leant close.

“Thomas blinked in confusion.

“Don’t be _impertinent_ , Kenworthy. It _seldom_ becomes you. _Come on, oust_ with the details. Did you _hit_ the _berk back_?”

She asked with a threatening tone. Thumping her ‘cane’ down on the floor once again with a loud thud. Demanding satisfaction on the undisclosed matter. Thomas knew, without a single doubt, that next time, the stick would meet the top of his foot. Never mind assaulting Benedict, she’d start on _him_ if her second nephew wasn’t here to pass muster.

He held out his right throwing hand from behind his back, showing her the purple bruises that littered his knuckles. Now tinting a garish red and yellow as they started to worsen before they faded.

“I believe I heard his nose fracture. And I did leave him with a rather nasty black eye to boot.” Thomas grinned proudly.

Lady Mannering looked immensely proud of him. Her dark eyes shone alight with delight. As if she too had been harboring a desire to attack the awful man. Her eyes glittered with warmth and affection for the Duke.

“I say, I _do like you,_ Kenworthy. You’re a jolly good sport.”

She awarded. And that was the most well-earned compliment he had ever gathered from her lips.

“Next to my Nephew, You are my favourite Duke to grace society. You add a certain level headed sordidness into things.” She chuckled acerbically. “I admire that.”

“You know many debutante girls claim to find find you humorless, and off standing, but so terribly amiable. Don’t you? And the wall flowered gels sing to the high heavens with praise for you.” She awarded. She was as blunt as ever.

“ _Do_ they? He asked.

“They do sir. And _do not_ make the heinous mistake of disbelieving me.” She warned.

Thomas chuckled.

“I’d never be so insolent as to dare, Lady Mannering.” He told with truth.

“Pray many before you have not been so wise. I knew Burke was an imbecile the second he was outed as a bachelor in society. He’s determined, heaven help us, a determined and horrible man. A right _ass_ if you ask me…”

“I didn’t ask you.”

He spoke, staring at her in shock, but his smile built and grew wide of its own accord.

She blinked blandly at his shocked look.

“Don’t tell me my bluntness caught you off guard. You should know better than anyone I say what I think. At my age, _Kenworthy_ , it’s impossible to pretend that I give a _damn_ about being considered rude. Any breath could be _my last_ you know. My old ticker is growing more and more weary by each passing day. I shan’t waste my valuable time left on this earth prancing about being civil to idiots. When I go, I’ll go fighting, and what’s more, I will be remembered for being so righteously _honest_. Mark my words.”

Thomas chuckled before he could stop himself doing so.

“Surely such a travesty would never occur, Lady Mannering.” He spoke kindly.

“You flatter with such ease...” She narrowed her eyes at him again, smiling all the while. “Are you a rake?” She asked dubiously.

It was Thomas’s turn to bark out a bite of laughter at that.

“I am not rumored as one Ma’am. I believe my charms are a well-practiced virtue that I caught from your second Nephew...”

He awarded, scanning across the room again, watching the doors. Lady Mannering narrowed her eyes at the Duke, following his eye line to the double door entrance where many people were milling in.

“Pray, Kenworthy. Who are you watching after? Oh, now let me guess, That Red haired Farrow woman, no doubt. _AH yes_ , I remember now, Pretty Gel. Isn’t she? Carlton told me some shreds of nattering’s as to your engagement to her…”

Lady Mannering guessed, hitting the arrow on the target board. He admired her sharp mind for such a correct analysis. Leaning up to try and let her withered old frame see over the crowds with him

“…May I be the umpteenth person to wish you joy. As _banal_ as I find that offering. I _like you_ Kenworthy. Therefore I shall wish it to the people who I like. I’ve met that gel many times. She is such rejuvenating company. You shall have a great handful of a wife. For she has more than a brain and a half about her head. Stubborn too, so they say. She famously snubbed Burke right out in the public eye, shaming and humiliating him. _Good on the gel_. I say. And _good on you_. Your tempers are similar to behold. Plus there is the giddy delight that you are a most bearable pair to talk too. That is a blessing unto itself. You may call upon me for visits when you are married. I should like to see her more before you bundle her away to Derbyshire to produce scores and scores of heirs. Pray, come down to London to relieve me of such torture at your sensible loss. Society these days is lined with _fools_ who do not know their Aristotle’s from an Artichoke…I daresay I shall mourn the passing of these intelligent conversations of ours with great depth and fervor…”

Thomas bowed to her, lightly.

“Thank you as to your wishes, Ma’am. I am relieved to know we are welcome to your company. We shall be sure to visit you. I give you my word. And I, _am not_ a gentleman who breaks his pledges…”

He smiled down at her, Heartened that this little old lady wanted two perfect strangers to call into her home and see her when they were able. To give her some joy in her lonely days. It was a touching thought, and he would be certain to uphold his end of the bargain.

She grinned her weathered grin up to his towering height. Watching his smile.

“Good.”

She offered, patting his hand patronizingly.

“I say, hurry up and marry the gel, she’s looking at you in way that is nearly _indecorous_. I like that in a woman though. Fiery. Uncaring for etiquette. A good attribute, I say. Stubborn and wilful. It’s very refreshing. She is quite a diamond of the first water, isn’t she? Quite the bathing beauty. Fine figure too, good size for carrying babies, I’d guess...”

She offered, nodding, crossing her hands atop her cane. Nodding deliberately.

Thomas’s head whipped up to survey the crowds at her words, seeing that as the withered woman at his side had commanded his attention so wholly, he was unwise to the fact that Elizabeth and her party had slid through the doors, greeting their host, Lady Landworthy. Araminta behind Elizabeth, Violet by her side, and Sir Richard was in tow behind the group of ladies, with Felicity by his side.

Thomas surveyed his lover across the crowds for a moment. She still looked as lovely as ever. Stood talking side on to Lady Landworthy. Her hair pulled up in a coiled arrangement that he instantly wanted to defile. Lovely diamond droplets glittered hanging from her in her earlobes, and the gown she wore was so fine, it should have been a work of art in the Louvre. He’d give up the world to be able to tug his fingers through her thick red hair again, like he had done last night when they were alone in the carriage. Her hands now were folded demurely at her front, and he could see that the wheaten gold colour of her gown enhanced her hair colour into pure fire, and made her milky skin wonderfully supple to look upon. He remembered the brush of her soft lips against his, how her eyes had fluttered shut in pure utter bliss when he had laid a trail of kisses down her neck to her collarbone. She had applied the barest hint of rouge to her cheeks, and her lashes were wonderfully long and fluttering as he watched her blink through a pretty smile, curtseying her thanks to their second host, Lord Landworthy. Her lashes casting a brush of a shadow down her smooth cheeks. People clapped and hollered around him as the polka came to an end, but still, despite the noise, energy, heat and movement in the room right in front of him, his eyes could not be torn from the absolute vision of his beloved.

Lady Mannering’s piercing watchful eyes switched from the Kenworthy, to the flame haired Farrow gel, to Kenworthy, and then back again. Seeing that he had not taken his eyes off the woman. But rather was dissecting her lovingly across the dance floor with a fools in love tender smile.

She grinned, rolling her eyes, and thumping her cane to get the damned infatuated man’s attention, making a ‘tsk’ sound afterwards at his damned silly behavior. Anyone would think he was a puerile adolescent, not a fully grown male, and a titled one at that.

“You love the woman like mad, Kenworthy. I declare. Stop catching flies in that open wide trap of yours, and go and ask the lady for a dance before you start to drool like my elderly little Devon Cocker…” Lady Mannering ordered, not to be trifled with.

It was at this point that a familiar swooping frame of a familiar face made himself known to his great Aunt, and his best friend. As he sauntered his swaggering way up to them both, two small glasses of brandy in his hands.

“Evening Philomena, you old battle axe. How long have you been torturing my friend with your advancing senility for then? Here you are, I know you are partial the odd snifter …”

Benedict asked as he handed his great Aunt a small pitcher of sweet brandy. Watching with that infuriatingly handsome smirk of his as his aged relative grinned wide back at him. She accepted the glass, and Benedict clinked it with her own.

“I oft wonder where he got his bluntness from, from now on I shall wonder no longer...”Thomas remarked with humor. Raising a cheeky brow to Lady Mannering.

She replied with a wrinkled old smile.

“I’ve always liked you, my boy. You know how to look after your favourite Aunt.”

She spoke sincerely. Before the both of them watched as she jabbed Benedict’s foot _, hard,_ with her cane. The sight of such a daggering blow made Thomas wince, but smirk afterwards.

“ _Ouch._ ” Benedict shrieked, bringing his knee up to rub his foot, looking hurt.

“What on earths blue blazes and hell, was that for?”

He asked her. Just as Thomas let out a bark of amused laughter, Seeing Lady Mannering’s face scowl into a mask of displeasure At Carlton, as she chided her Nephew.

“For not coming to see me sooner. _Shame on you_ , Benedict Timothy Julian Carlton. You were raised better than that to come and bid good evening to your own relatives, though it did allow me time to justify that your friend here is of the most knowledgeable and amusing company. Which I knew already. But Kenworthy kindly confirmed as such for me this evening.” She spoke. Breaking the silence again after a small pause.

“He beat up Burke you know…”

She winked, to Thomas who grinned because of the wizened old move. “The gentleman is alright in my books for such an elegant and much awaited action to such a _detestable_ beast of a man.”

Benedict rolled his eyes.

“I was present at the Opera house when the attack took place, I must say, Thomas can be quite feral when he needs be.” Benedict added, seeing that Thomas pinkened slightly, looking straight to his boots, sheepishly.

“So should he be. I would be if that man attacked _me_ in public.” Lady Mannering confessed. She let loose one of her famed _‘harrumph’s’_ not long afterwards. “Serves him _bloody_ right...”

She growled. Looking across the busy and chaotic dance floor to see that the Farrow girl had disappeared, presumably she was weaving through the crowds to come to her Betrothed’s side. As per the all-consuming magnetic pull of young love.

She looked back to the two gentleman surrounding her. Who were trying to hide their amused smiles at her swearing.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, _laugh_ why don’t you, the _pair of you_. Of you’ll become like the damned miserable French. Who scowl and smoke all the time because they don’t know how best to laugh...”

Benedict wiped a tear from his eye, and Thomas bit the inside of his lip so hard to keep from erupting into heavy bouts of spine wracking, side splitting, rib- aching laughter.

“Oh, Please, Philomena, never change. You crazy old bat….” Benedict smirked.

She narrowed her eyes into amused slits, handing him back her glass. Her eyes dancing with mirth.

“I grow weary of this company, I fear I need to take a seat somewhere, my old knees shall not sustain me for the night. Carlton. I shall see you when you next decide to grace the ballroom, just because that Violet Burchrowe girl shows her face…” She spoke wisely.

Benedict paled at that.

“Word has it, which reached my ears five days ago, that you are developing a certain taste for individual company. Namely, Violet Burchrowe. _I know all about it_ , Benedict, your visit to her to take tea, your little shared tour together of the national gallery. I have eyes and ears all around London. You know _I can tell_ when a man is serious about a woman, Carlton. _DO NOT_ think my age is a hindrance to my wisdom and resources for gossip. Take this one if you will…” She motioned to Thomas.

“…He’s quite stupid for that Farrow girl, were he not so rightly entertaining and astute, I’d call him out and snub him for his foolish lovesick ways…”

She then leaned into Benedict. “It’s quite a _nauseating_ sight actually…”

Benedict grinned.

“I know exactly what you mean…” He beamed, winking at his relative. Referring to how sickeningly sweet he found Thomas and Elizabeth’s declarations of mushy love.

The both of them looking back to Thomas. Who gave Benedict a glare. He didn’t think he could survive through glaring at Lady Mannering. His poor toes would be sore for _days_ as a result. That ‘cane’ of hers looked sharp. And she wielded it with strength and skill that belied her frail old age.

“It was a horrific pleasure meeting you once again, Lady Mannering.” Thomas bowed his head in politesse.

She let out another one of her sharp staccato barks at hearing his words. Waggling a bony finger at him as she began to totter away.

“You are quickly becoming my favourite…”

“How humanitarian of you, Ma’am, declaring loyalty to a perfect stranger when your own, _apparently preferred_ , second Nephew stands a mere metre away. Then again. You never were one for being a great paragon of Christian generosity.” Benedict sarrced.

“And how well you know of it…” She grinned wickedly. Delighting in being an aged misbehaving insurgent.

“I wonder if I’ll ever make the top of the list...” He asked under his breath to Thomas as she made good distance away from them both. Thomas grinned.

“You will if you ever stop mucking about and get married...Miss Burchrowe would do you well I presume? Or do you merely like her companionship?” She leered winningly at her Nephew.

Benedict groaned, shutting his eyes. He forgot the woman had _dog ears_. In all her many years of life, her hearing still could not be faulted. It still worked rather excellently. A _little too_ excellently he thought.

“Don’t you have more members of London’s Society to attack and corral, Philomena?” Benedict asked cheekily.

“Not If I have yet the pleasure of staying here and vexing the heck out of you, dear second nephew…” She grinned with rogue audacity.

Benedict rolled his eyes, turning back to Thomas before they heard her bark out another clipped sentence as she came across someone’s path. And that someone was a someone whom was very familiar to both of the men stood on the fringes of the ballroom.

“Oh, excuse me, Lady Mannering.”

Elizabeth smiled, bobbing a quick curtsey in the elder woman’s direction. Holding her sweeping wheaten gold skirts out of the woman’s path. Ever the polite miss. Thomas’s stomach leapt at seeing her appear so close. On hearing her voice. All of it left him aching madly for his fiancée once more.

“Think nothing of it, my dear, I say, I had just come across to harangue Sir Carlton, My second Nephew, and I had the pleasure of talking to your husband-to-be, whom is most taken with you, my dear gel. I confess, there has been no smarter marriage match made for this entire season..” She flattered.

“That is most kind of you, Ma’am. Pray, I had no idea Sir Benedict was your second Nephew. He’d never told me he had such a formidable Great Aunt.” She praised.

“I say, brains and beauty. My dear.”

Lady Mannering waggled an intelligent bony omnipotent finger at the girl. Grinning.

“…Mark my words, Thomas had better watch his back where you are concerned. He’ll be beating jealous suitors away with a stick when you are wed. And we all know the length’s he’d go to protect you...” Mannering winked.

“Upon my word, you are _too kind_ , Mi’lady.” Elizabeth smiled.

“I have made your husband promise that you and he shall come to visit me before you are wed and rushed back to Chatsworth to the marriage bed. And he had promised to not break his word upon visiting me. There are very few people in this ghastly society who I can tolerate with equanimity. But you and Thomas top my list of levelheadedness and rational wit. I like that a great deal…” She bestowed. And gaining a compliment from her, was like being honored by Queen Victoria herself. She blushed, if but a little, at the marriage bed bit.

“I shall see to it that he keeps to his promise, Lady Mannering. I would like that very much. It is rare to find someone in a London society ballroom of such spirited honesty. It is quite an enlivening trait to possess. I only wish myself that I could claim to have a large measure of it.”

“Oh my dear…” Lady Mannering reached out and patted her hand. Her wizened dark little eyes shone like speckling antimatter.

“As long as you have Kenworthy by your side, and surround yourself with those infamous friends of yours. Farrow. You shall _always_ have the courage to possess that strong-willed morality. Make no mistake about it.” She offered with such severe intensity, Elizabeth didn’t dare doubt her words for even a second.

She nodded, and let the elder woman sidle away, her cane thumping the floor like percussion as she slowly moved away. Elizabeth watched her go. Heartened that she, Lady Mannering, a relative stranger to her, had accosted her with her enthusiastic well wishes for hers and Thomas’s marriage. And as for the fact she declared them to be one of the finest couples of the season, well. She felt blessed in such an honorary respect.

She focused her attentions on her fiancée fixing Thomas with her gently beautiful smile as she headed closer in his direction. But not before she heard Lady Mannering’s parting quip resonate through the air behind her, forcing her to turn and look over her shoulder at the retreating crone.

“Oh, and please _do hurry up_ and get that Violet Burchrowe Gel and My Benedict married off. He likes her _ever so much_ you know…” She simpered as she sauntered away.

Elizabeth grinned in odes to the elderly woman.

Thomas looked across to Benedict, who let his head hang low as he shut his eyes. His chin drooping down to his chest in defeat. Sighing in anger.

“Good evening Thomas, Sir Benedict…” Elizabeth laughed sunnily as she drew close to them both. Thomas meeting her, pulling her close and pressing a kiss to her hand.

Thomas said naught but smiled wide at her in a way that made Sir Carlton roll his eyes with the fact that his friends loving gaze was bordering the fringes of sickening again, after Thomas let her hand glide gracefully back to her hand, Benedict stepped forwards, taking her hand and bowing. He didn’t dare place a kiss to the back of it, lest his friend wring his neck for such an offense to his intended bride.

“I fear, that old bat is getting _worse_ and _worse_ by the day in her barmy old age.” He sighed angrily Taking Miss Farrow’s hand.

Elizabeth chuckled, watching as he bowed. Straightening up, but still glaring in the direction where his nutty family member had waddled off too.

“I have to disagree with you Mr Carlton, I think she is among one of the only persons in London whose mind grows _evermore sharper_ with each passing day. Not to mention she is a pinnacle of good frank honesty...” She spoke

“You do look divinely ravishing, tonight, Miss Farrow.” Benedict awarded. “Gold becomes you very _well indeed_ …” He flattered.

Elizabeth smiled, Thomas fought the urge to slap his friends hand away from her own as he still had not let go.

Benedict, whom had finished grinning his alarmingly potent handsome smile at Elizabeth, the one he reserved for wooing and seducing Innocents and wives, and turned to Thomas, to see his friend sky blue eyes looked like thunder as he glared across to him. Benedict, waved the proverbial white flag, retreating his hand from hers and backing down lest he really did wring his neck.

“I was just making light hearted conversation with a lady, Thomas. No need to maul me for such a heinous crime…” Benedict joked.

“Elizabeth, dear, return to your beloved side for god sakes, before he is hanged for my murder...” Benedict insisted.

She smiled at that. Sidling closer to Sir Thomas’s side, sweeping her skirts out of the way, and letting him link his arm through hers to keep her pressed by his side.

“Though I will hurt him painfully at some point in time or another for using his _rakes_ _and wooing only_ smile on you, I cannot help but repeat his sentiment about the way you look tonight. My darling, you look absolutely wonderful…” He smiled softly, ushering his words to her in a gentle and husky tone that left her a bit gooey to her middle as a result.

She blushed, smiling as she looked down to her feet, letting Thomas know that she accepted his compliment.

“Pray, forgive my intruding question, Miss Farrow. But did Miss Burchrowe accompany you here tonight?”

Benedict asked, fiddling with his hands nervously, not quite fully meeting her blue eyes.

Elizabeth smiled, eyes flickering off to Thomas, who grinned knowingly back at her.

“Why yes, sir, she did. But I fear she got lost somewhere amongst this crush. I’m sure she will make her way back to us soon enough...” Elizabeth smiled knowingly.

Benedict narrowed his eyes in a smile at her, quite alike, Thomas thought, that of his elderly aunt. His eyes sunk in the sockets, glittered with dark blue wisdom.

“Match making, however, Miss Farrow, is not becoming on you.” He said lowly but with a good humored smile as Thomas chuckled.

“Pray Sir, I know not what you mean…” She sniffed affably, craning her pretty head and neck to peer across the ballroom, avoiding his gaze. Seeing that her eyes picked up on recognizing the slender form of one awful Miss Sophie Richworth. Who stood angling her head up and down in a most bizarre manner, searching for a certain gentleman who was stood just in front of her and Thomas. She then watched as she caught sight of him, and her eyes widened and she shoved people furiously out of her way to try and get to him. Uncaring of whom she trampled in the process.

“I fear, Sir Carlton, you may wish to make a hasty exit to try and find Violet. Miss Richworth is making rather _quick haste_ in this direction…”

Elizabeth spoke in a low voice. Seeing Benedict’s eyes shoot wide. And his head twitched to the far corner of the ballroom where the single-minded young miss was veritably _flattening_ ladies and gentleman under her feet as she charted a passionately quick path through the room. Elizabeth actually watched as poor _poor_ Primrose Pennington was sent sprawling _to the floor_ from a purposeful shove to her back from Sophie’s sharp elbow.

Elizabeth, and Thomas barely had time to switch their eyes back to Benedict before the only thing they saw was the halo-ed fop of his brown curls, and the flap of his blue coat tails as the man darted away into the crowds in attempts to escape the dementedly determined miss. The last thing they heard from the man was a cursed expletive of an obscenity as he scattered madly away. Gangly legs torn over which direction would best spirit him away from her the quickest.

They chuckled at seeing him disappear in such a hasty manner. Taking some pleasure in his misfortune.

“I do not mind declaring, that girl is something viciously frightening…”

Thomas said lowly to Elizabeth as they stood together. Watching as another dance began in front of them, they watched in blissful content as couples twirled and dipped and spun around the dance floor.

“May I reserve the next waltz with you, Dearest?”

Thomas turned to her, sweetly caressing the back of her hand as he did. Elizabeth smiled back to him. Momentarily loosing herself in his enchanting eyes and smile.

“You most certainly can.”

She smiled back. As butterflies swarmed in herds through her at the sight of his smile.

“Miss Elizabeth…”

Came a pinched and saccharine voice in front of them. The tone of it so pitched and squeaky. It was a voice that grated down on the both of their ears. They turned to find that Miss Mabel Loxley stood before them, in all her extravagant finery. She wore a tight and very low cut Lavender velvet dress, showing off her arms and her corseted bust, with strained at the cut of her overexposing neckline. Her hair was excellently swept up into the latest fashion upon her head, adorned with jeweled hairpins in her hair, and the finest white silk gloves leading up her arms. Mabel Loxley was not an unpleasant woman from up close, in terms of her beauty, it was her personality that was the most horrid thing about her. Her face was elegantly structured, with a pair of sultry brown eyes and wispy eyelashes, and a perfectly formed heart shaped mouth and oval face. Her beauty was striking, but her manner was decidedly less so.

“Miss Loxley...” Elizabeth offered back in a very bewildered greeting.

“I don’t mean to intrude upon your time alone with your… _fiancé_ …. But I come with an express errand from Miss Burchrowe…” She explained, looking like she’d rather be somewhere else, talking to someone entirely different than them.

“Violet?”

Elizabeth blinked, if but a tad confused.

“Yes. She requested your assistance in the Powdering room down the east side of the house. She says she has a snag or a tear in her hem that she needs assistance with… And as such, I was just leaving the room myself, when she sent me to fetch you, to help aid her.”

She explained blandly, not seeming to be at all enjoying herself here. As if they were below her in almost every station of life.

Thomas watched her face keenly. Just the evening last, he remembered how she had trailed after Burke at the Opera House, and glared at Elizabeth after the fight in the foyer. How she as undoubtedly a companion of his, and there was something, not _quite right_ about her tone. His senses were piqued in curious suspicion. But, the news about town that spread like wildfire since then, was that every dowager, Lady, Mama and high class woman and hostess worth her salt, had scrubbed Burke’s name off of the ‘desirable bachelor’ list for any of the upcoming balls. Snubbing him from any society functions in the near future. His name was disgraced. And as such, he would not warrant a single invitation to a ball, or an assembly ever again. He had confirmed as such the second he had come to greet and thank their hostess here tonight. Delighted to see that Lady Landworthy had scoffed at the mention of the man’s name. Declaring that: ‘ _I imagine no self-respecting woman about London will ever wish to lay eyes upon that man ever again. The man is a degradation of the worst sort…’_ Which made Thomas smile in safe assurance that Marcus Burke would not be accepted into any ballroom in London for the rest of his life. So they should not expect him here tonight under any circumstances.

“I.I, I will go directly… Thank you. For passing on the message, Miss Loxley…”

Elizabeth beamed gently in her sweet smile, looking back to Thomas, and letting her hand slide away from his as she left his side. Thought he didn’t want too. Something felt off. He wanted her to stay by his side. He watched her leave, before his eyes flickered to Mabel in front of him. Who scanned him up and down under a thick fan of desirous lashes, before she batted them at him in a blink, and turned, moving away into the crowds.

Thomas frowned. Watching as Elizabeth crossed through the doors at the far side of the room. Watching the door for a long minute after she walked through it. Thomas stayed stood off to the side, waiting for the two familiar forms of his fiancée and Miss Violet to grace the room again seconds later. Instead, his nerves were grated into a feeling of dread as one dance passed, then another began. And still they had not returned. And he was no woman, but even he knew that a torn hem did not take eight and half minutes to fix between two ladies. The hair on the back of his neck was starting to stand up, and his stomach squirmed and fidgeted with horrible nerves.

_Something was not right…_

He could not lay his finger upon it. But _something unpleasant was afoot_ , he could sense as such in the air about the room. In the way his body felt unsettled and wrong somehow. And he needed to find out what was bugging him so badly...

He started across the fringes of the ballroom, dodging men and women, weaving quickly past them with small pleas of ‘excuse me’ as he zigzagged past the crowds. He came to a clearing, and was just striding across, when an elegant voice behind him made his blood run cold.

“Good evening, Sir Thomas.” Came the soft and gentle voice.

Thomas turned his head, his stomach now at his feet, and his heart in his ears. As he saw Violet Burchrowe swerve out of the crowds, rosy cheeked and breathing from the exertion of just having finished a gavotte. Smiling prettily at her best friend’s fiancé with gentle kindness to her hazel green eyes. But, unbeknownst to her, his blood was now turning into ice. Unless she had an evil twin with whom he was not familiar, there was no way Miss Violet was in a powdering room, ailed with a torn hem to the east of the house. As Mabel Loxley so claimed. Meaning that Elizabeth had been drawn away from him to places unknown.

Violet watched as the Duke in front of her paled. His eyes glittering with worry and concern. His face a perfect picture of the most horrible disposition.

“Pray, Sir you are most pale. Is everything alright?”

She asked with her lovely smile slowly fading from her heart shaped lips.

Thomas shook his head. His voice low and terrified when he spoke.

“No. Miss Violet. I fear things are _not alright_. Things are indeed not alright _at all…”_

 

 

 

~

 

 

 


	31. A Gently Bred Ladies Ruination, Wardrobes, and Little Saviors...

 

~

 

 

Elizabeth sidled her merry way along the dark corridors of Lady Landworthy’s large and extravagant house. She had just come inside the large French doors, which opened directly out onto the ballroom, and the dancefloor. Pressing the door shut with her back, hearing the latch click as she shoved the huge slab of wood back in place. She made along the narrow corridor, littered to each side with all the furniture and décor that usually adorned the room which was now being used for the party. Elizabeth could not make out much in the dim darkness, but the shape of chairs, tables and end tables stacked high on one another. And as such, she could not see what hid in the shadows, lurking there either.

She let her eyes adjust to the darkness for a moment, before she made her way down to the end, seeing if that would better lead her to the east side powdering rooms where Violet awaited her. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, cursing her friend’s clumsiness, for without it, she would not have a torn hem to contend with. She had just crossed past a room directly opposite a winding staircase to her left, when she peered to the right, to see a plainly furnished salon, complete with a chaise and an armchair or two gathered about a fireplace, aswell as a wardrobe in the alcove to the right of the fireplace, also, a large globe placed behind an armchair to the far corner of the room. Furnished in matching shades of beige and gold. With accenting drapes and carpets. Elizabeth peered into the room for a second, thinking she had heard a soft scuffling to the inside of the wardrobe. But perhaps she had imagined it… She shook her head. Intending to walk on. When a voice spoke up from the shadows under the cloak of darkness from beside the bottom of the stairs. Nestled hiding in amongst the stacked furnishings.

“Isn’t _this_ _a pretty little situation_ , Elizabeth...”

Came a deep angered growl, Libby gasped, looking off behind her to see the large bulky shape of a man loom out from his dark hiding place. Bulldozing into her as he moved swiftly. She could only gasp and yelp against his hand as it came up to slam across her mouth, grabbing her body tight as he threw her through the doorway, making her stumble on her feet as she sailed through the door, his body pinning to hers, before he shoved her away, and closed the door behind him. She listened as then came the grotesque twisting of the key locking the door shut behind him as he sickeningly grinned across to her. His dark eyes dancing with angered malice across to her.

“Marcus. Please unlock the door...”

She spoke slowly, with ice on her tone. Edging away from the feral look she found in his eyes.

“Now why on earth would I want to do that?”

He asked her. She took a moment to examine him. He was dressed elegantly. In a pressed black jacket, with a scarlet cravat about his neck, tied about a pressed white shirt, with a matching russet brown reddy coloured waistcoat. On his bulky legs, he wore black trousers, with bowler shoes on his feet. She swallowed, seeing that he slid the key out of its place, and slid it into his pocket. Which was an action which didn’t fill her with joy. She was now left, alone, undefended, in a room with this beast of a man. Terror was starting to paralyze her limbs, and the rest of her body.

He stalked his angered way towards her. Stopping six inches shy of her. Making her shrink back a few tentative steps. Trying to put as much distance between him and herself as she could manage.

“You know what I want to do, Elizabeth? _Hmmm?_ Because I’ll tell you. I want to get my revenge on the low life, harlot, of a professor’s daughter who rejected me to be wed off to a bloody bastard of a Duke. And who cast me aside like yesterday’s newspaper. And because of her, and of him. I have been rejected from all important ranks of society, and subsequently dismissed of my Father’s favour. I haven’t a penny in the world to my name, now and it’s all because _of you_ …” He explained. Jabbing a beefy finger into her shoulder, shoving her backwards by a centimetre.

She couldn’t help but feel a little smug at hearing that Cecil Burke had renounced his son. The lout deserved no less. And it was perhaps the only time she would ever come to think highly of the flabby ill-mannered man. Whom had clearly passed his unfortunate manners down onto his son.

“You cannot blame me for your pursuing undesirable pastimes with stage girls and drink…” Elizabeth snarled.

“No, But I can for the fact I have now been snubbed from everyone I’ve ever known. My friends want nothing to do with me. And as long as I live, I shall never set foot inside any well-to-do society ballroom. And now I am left humiliated and with nothing to sustain me, cut off and discarded by my father to starve on the streets as a penniless pauper…”

He chuckled humorlessly. His horrible smile lighting up his cruel eyes in the worst sort of demonic way. Also showing her the darkening purple bruise, and the deep laceration of a cut that Thomas’s fist had caused just under his left eye.

“Then what precisely, Sir, do you want from me?”

She asked with bite to her voice, her fists clenched by her sides. Her eyes like venom. And her spine straight and unwavering as she squared up to the bulky frame of the man.

That’s when he smiled. And the sight of such made Elizabeth’s body pinch up in terror.

He moved closer then, inching her back step by step, until her body hit the wall behind her, telling her there was nowhere else for her to retreat too. She couldn’t escape as his own body bracketed her there.

“I want your body. Your hand in marriage. But most of all. I want _your money_ …”

He snarled. And she watched with wide terrified eyes as he drew a small knife out of his coat pocket. To which she shrunk further into the wall, now terrified that he would use the weapon to harm her. She squirmed and tried shoving his body away from hers as he stepped closer and pressed the tip of the knife to her neckline, just above the valley of her breasts.

“I am already _engaged_. Now, _let me go. Now_ …” She fought.

Burke scoffed.

“You think I am oblivious to that fact. You stupid bitch.”

He spat, Elizabeth swallowed her tears and her horror at his abusive language.

“I will not let you go. And what’s more, after I am done with you, you are not going to be able to marry the Duke of Chatsworth. You are going to marry _me_. And let me have full control over your dowry” He insisted.

Elizabeth gasped as he pounced on her. His bulky body pressing her into the wall, as his hands came to her delectable body, roaming all over her. She yelped, and twisted in his arms. Yelling loudly for him to get off her, just as he brought the knife sharply down, cutting right through the front of her corset and ripping it open, tugging the knife to cut just down to the top of her ribs, his other hand pressing against her mouth as he reached for her skirts, and hitched them up her body, his lips by her ear, his defiling hot breath raking horribly down her skin in the most dreadful way. As he bit down hard upon her neck, the hand that wasn’t tangled in amongst her skirts, gripping her tight and pushing her painfully into the wall. She wriggled and screamed and jerked out of his way for all her life was worth, feeling as he started to tug her stockings down underneath her dress. Letting them slide down to her knees. Before his hand then wandered to the back of her head, and gripped her hair painfully. Crushing her lips into his own, she could hear his guttural moans as he kissed her deep. His lips violating her own as two hot tears of pain sprang down her cheeks as he assaulted her. Then he spoke again, his mouth back by her ear.

“When your fiancé discovers us. You will have no choice but to marry me. Because he will think I have claimed and _ruined_ you.”

He spat into her ear

“No...”

She whimpered, more tears running wet ribbons down her cheeks.

“No. no,...Let me go-mmnnff-“

His beefy abusing hands held her close again, pressing her curves deep into his own hard body. His mouth on her own again, In a way that made her quite sick, and wanting to tear herself away from him, his hands were everywhere upon her. In her hair, by her neck, cupping her waist to keep her tugged close. Under her bottom, round to the backs of her thighs, squeezing and feeling her in the most private and inappropriate of places. When his tongue snuck into her mouth, she’d had enough, she clamped her teeth down hard upon it. Which made him yelp and shout into her mouth. What she was not expecting however, was when he pulled back, wincing in pain. For his hand to strike sharp across her cheek, throwing her to the floor, as she lay there, prostrate and sobbing, but thankful to be away from him. Her hand came up instantly to cup against her burning hot cheek which throbbed with pain, she turned her head, more tears spilling down from her eyes as she peered up at him behind her as he snarled in anger at her. His chest rising and falling raggedly as he glared down to her. His own hand then came up, unknotting his cravat and tugging and twisting it, to make it appear rumpled. Aswell as unbuttoning the first couple of buttons on his shirt. To truly make it look like they had shared a clandestine rendezvous. He also crossed to the corner of the room, dumping the small knife in the large vase behind the armchair. So no one would be able to doubt that he ripped her dress open in passion, not in planning of pretending to ruin her by cutting it open.

“No one will believe you...”

She found herself saying in the tiniest, most timid and scared voice she could muster.

“Would you like to hear _the best_ part about this? Is the fact that the few friends I have left, will be spreading the information of your ruination, by me, all across the ballroom as we speak. So no one will dare doubt that I have taken you here, tonight...”

He smirked proudly. He really had drawn her into a neat little trap. Elizabeth’s lip wobbled on hearing that.

There suddenly came knocking and thumping against the door. As if someone was shoving their shoulder against it repeatedly. And then she heard a voice. She heard the lovely voice of the man with whom she had fallen so madly in love with.

“ _Elizabeth?_ ”

Thomas called, his loud worried voice muffled through the wood of the door. The door handle shaking furiously as he tried his level best from the other side to get it to budge.

She looked up to Burke, who smiled gleefully.

“ _AH_. Here comes the _hero_...”

He spat nastily, nearly chuckling at the situation.

“I wonder if he knows his breaking into this room will lead him to find that his lady love has just been snatched right out from under him...”

Burke sneered, looking thoroughly amused by the prospect.

“Because it is not a palatable feeling…” He explained.

More tears sprang from her eyes, as she heard him call through the door for her again. She could hear the door splinter and shatter as the pounding the other side of it increased.

Burkes hand hauled her to her feet by yanking furiously on her arm, tugging her into his body again, and wrenching her to the wall, pressing her there, his mouth to hers again.

“Let’s make good use of our situation… shall we?”

He asked as he brought his lips to hers again in a dominant kiss. Keeping up the pretense of her ruination.

And before she knew it, the door was thrown open, the wood battered and beaten away from the lock, to show her the form of the tall, and rather angry, Duke of Chatsworth the other side of it. Appearing from the dark corridor.

More tears sprang forth from her eyes as she saw the dust from the broken door clear, and Thomas’s face fell upon seeing what was happening to the two inhabitants of the room. Burke finished kissing her, and looked back to the door, and smiled upon seeing how Sir Thomas was stood, frozen to the spot as his eyes went to his weeping beloved crushed under Burke’s frame. She wriggled to get free, but Marcus stepped aside. Leaving her body sagging against the wall. As she stared across the room to the man who had her heart. And whose heart she had just broken…

“Glad you could join us Kenworthy…”

Burke grinned, his lips air starved from kissing her.

“You may be the first to wish us both joy…” He chuckled.

Elizabeth could not tear her tear filled eyes away from Thomas. Whom, it had to be said, his own eyes looked a little moist. His skin was pale as a sliver of moonlight from the window behind her highlighted him. His brows were pulled down with sorrow and bewilderment. And he stood there, looking utterly divine, having shed his jacket, clad in just black breeches and black leather boots. She could see his linen shirt sleeves rolled up his arms, and his waistcoat was undone. Showing her the fine midnight blue colour of his velvet waistcoat. His chest rose and fell slowly as he took in what had allegedly occurred between them.

“Elizabeth...”

Thomas spoke at last, his voice breaking on the singular word. Her lips wobbled madly, and tears burst from her eyes, as a sob burst from her throat. Strangling her in silence.

She couldn’t meet his eyes, but watched on in horror, as her parents materialized in the doorway behind him. Mrs Sharpe gasped, on seeing Elizabeth with mussed hair, bruised lips and a torn dress. Which doubtlessly led her to one conclusion. Her mouth gaped, and she swooned slightly into Sir Richard’s arms as he stood by his wife’s side, he too looking aghast at the situation presented before them. Richard Farrow had never hated a man more than he did right then. Stood open mouth, unable to believe his own reliable eyes.

“Lady Farrow, Sir Farrow. You daughter, is _ruined_ …” Burke smiled.

Mrs Sharpe clapped a hand over her mouth as she cried.

“No…”

She panted in pleading. Tears bursting from her eyes. Watching as this caused a horrific grin to spread further across Burke’s lips.

“She gave herself to me. And, being a man of repute, I should like to marry her right away.”

Marcus explained, eyes looking to his new parent’s in law, stood by the door. Pointedly ignoring Thomas.

“He... He didn’t...”

Elizabeth tried to explain through her sobs, Thomas crossed the room. Burke standing in his way as the Duke got to him.

Thomas’s hand went to his pocket. And he looked down, his fingers touching to the small velvet box, which had the perfect engagement ring, nestled inside. And of which he was going to give to her tonight. To finally make sure she would have the most breath taking ring she deserved. His eyes looked back up to her again. Looking across the Burke.

Thomas surveyed the man stonily. Before he jerked to one side, stepping past and coming to the trembling form of Elizabeth, who was huddled into the wall. Looking frail and pained.

“Is this true?” He asked in a low voice.

Before she could open her mouth and speak, Burke leapt in for her, and answered.

“Of course it’s true. Why would it not be true, No hiding true love, _hey_ , Elizabeth...”

Burke spoke with humour. As Thomas and Elizabeth looked deep into each other’s eyes. Thomas stroked an errant hair back off her forehead.

“I would like my answer from the lady...”

Thomas bit off over his shoulder to Burke, his voice straining through sadness.

His sky blue eyes found her own again, as she swallowed her fear and spoke.

She shook her head.

“He-. Burke, he didn’t…Please don’t let him-”

She began, not able to finish her words for the tears that were streaming down over her cheeks. Then she heard that sound come from the corner by the fireplace again. Was it coming from the wardrobe?

Before she could say any more, Burke’s hand stole around her wrist, and snatched her away from the wall, and Thomas, to force her to come to a stand by his side. Trapping her into a position by his side as he glared hell fury at the Duke.

“Stay away _from my wife_ , _Kenworthy_. You may have had her at some point, but she was always destined to be _mine_...” He pointed out.

Elizabeth snarled, snatching her arm away from his hold.

“Believe me, Papa, Araminta, Thomas, when I declare that he is _lying_ …”

She exclaimed, glaring at the animal of a man.

“How can it be untrue dear?” Burke asked her, nastily.

“The whole ballroom is speaking of it...”

Mrs Sharpe admitted in a low quiet tone. Elizabeth turned to her stepmother.

“That is why we came at once, to hear it either confirmed or contradicted..”

“Surely you must believe me…”

She asked with desperation, coming to her parents, stood by the door.

“The door was locked, dear. We watched Thomas break it down, my darling. The evidence is...”

She began. Not able to say that the evidence was mounted against her. Fearing that they could not quell the gossip surrounding a ruination. Once it got out into society. It would never fade. And the whole ballroom, packed to the rafters with London’s elite members of society now knew of her daughter being ruined. Loss of purity in a woman, nowadays, was no retrievable thing, once lost.

“Lies!”

Elizabeth cried. Interrupting her.

“The evidence is lies. Put in place by that monster determined to get revenge upon the woman who rejected him...”

She turned, throwing her gesture and a glare at Burke.

“You cannot escape what happened, Elizabeth. I ruined you. And you enjoyed it. We must be wed. There is _no o_ ther way out of it...” Burke snapped.

“I will not marry you.”

She shook her head. Her eyes going off to the wardrobe, there came that rattling sound once again..

“Elizabeth...”

Richard spoke up.

“Would you have me married off to a man who abuses women, just based on flimsy evidence of a ruination?”

She asked angrily. Rage present in her blue eyes.

She turned to Thomas, who was still stood facing them all, over across the room by the window. Before his eyes flickered up to meet hers.

“The evidence, Elizabeth…”

He shook his head, not wanting to believe it. The horrid word of mouth that would spread like wild fire throughout London would destroy her reputation.

She shook her head.

“But, I love you… He. He is lying.”

She spoke, crying big fat, heart-broken, soul destroying tears.

“And I, you…”

Thomas granted back sincerely, tears of his own glittering away in his eyes. His voice, too, broken with sorrow. 

“I love you _like mad_ , Elizabeth.”

He spoke gently.

Libby sobbed, stood there, not able to try and convince anyone of the truth. Fearing Burke was getting his way.

Thomas’s eyes switched off to the side, as he heard a small scuttle come from the inside of the wardrobe. He had heard it when he had entered the room earlier. He frowned.

“Did you hear that?”

He asked Elizabeth gently.

She nodded. Stemming her tears for a moment. Unable to believe what was unfolding before her very eyes.

“Yes. Yes I did.”

She said in a small voice.

“Come along darling…”

Burke tried to hustle her, grabbing her arm once more.

“I procured a special license. All we need do is get to a church and wedded right away. Not a moment to lose...”

He spoke loudly, trying to wrestle her out of the room as she resisted. She tried to squirm out of his hold as he tried to usher her away. Making the situation all the more real if she stepped foot out of this room, and was wrestled up the aisle to become Mrs Burke, forevermore. It put a spear through her heart to think that she may not ever bare the surname ‘Kenworthy’ all due to no one believing her screaming at the top of her lungs, that the sordid accusation of her downfall was entirely untrue.

She snatched her arm back from him.

“I’m not marrying you.”

She insisted once again. Her face set like thunder.

“You have no choice on the matter…”

Burke snarled to her.

“Whether you like it or not, you will be Mrs Marcus Burke by the time the night is through, and there is nothing that anyone, on this god’s green earth can do to change that…”

He insisted, his voice raising to a shout.

“I won’t do it.”

She hissed back lowly.

“I’d rather live no life at all, than live as your wife...I’d rather live an old ruined maid, cast out of society for a lonely life than be joined in holy matrimony to a man such as  _you_ …”

She held out. Burke looked like he was going to strike her again. His eyes were so wild and sunken in fury.

Thomas watched Elizabeth hold out before the man, before he heard that same noise scuttle through the room again. It was _definitely_ coming from the wardrobe.

“What on earth is that _racket_?”

Mrs Sharpe wondered aloud, wiping away her tears to speak plainly. Face pulled too in confusion.

Thomas bypassed the ugly situation, crossing past the love of his life, and the animal that was Burke, and crossing in quick strides to the cupboard, nestled next to the fireplace. He found the latch locked when he got there, was shut from the outside, a situation easily remedied as he lifted the latch, and pulled both doors open. Which presented him a most uncommon sight when he did.

He frowned, seeing the little female figure huddled within, wincing at the fact that she had been discovered.

“Pest?”

Thomas asked with a furrowed brow as

“Felicity?”

Elizabeth spoke in confusion.

All of them watched as Felicity Farrow, squared up to her full height, head held high. And she marched out of that wardrobe, with all the elegance and dignity that someone who had been caught hiding in there, could muster. And stepped gently out. Coming to the centre of the room. Glaring at Burke all the while. Gazing in foul hatred at him as if she had no fear about her whatsoever. And then, the words that burst from her lips, were _so_ marvelous, Elizabeth had never felt prouder of her little sister than right at that moment.

“He’s lying.”

She declared to all the inhabitants of the room.

Thomas started to see red mist descend over his eyes, as he gazed foul black murder at Burke.

“What are you talking about? You infuriating little tick?”

Burke snapped to her.

“You _didn’t ruin_ Elizabeth. I have been in this room the entire time you pushed her in here.” She began.

As she spoke, Thomas looked to the wardrobe, to see that the open French weaved doors allowed many little gaps for anyone hiding within to see through to the room outside.

“… And you did not ruin her. He pushed her against that wall, and kissed her, certainly, but you did nothing more than cut her dress open, and pull her stockings down, just so everyone _would think_ you led her to ruin...”

She explained, pointing at Burke, and then at the wall as she gestured through her speech.

Burke sunk to let his hands rest on his knees in front of her. Patronizingly smirking at the youngest Farrow.

“What a ridiculous notion.”

He laughed condescendingly at her.

“T’is a Pity you _can’t prove_ it.”

He smirked, his eyes directing a dirty glare to the little bug of Elizabeth’s younger sister.

Felicity narrowed her eyes at the man.

“Pest...”

Thomas spoke up. Commanding her attention. She turned to Thomas.

“You said he cut her dress open. If he did. Why hasn’t he got a knife on him...”

Thomas asked, knowing that if Felicity was telling the truth, which he _strongly_ suspected that she was, then she could show them all where it was hidden. And prove Elizabeth’s innocence.

“In the vase, over in the corner. I saw him dump it in there...”

Felicity spoke, smirking a glare at Burke. Beginning to walk over to the vase, to prove her point, But Burke was clearly not having any of it, as he moved to haul felicity out of the way. But was stopped by a furious looking Elizabeth, whom grabbed his wrist before he could so much as touch or harm a single hair on Felicity’s head.

“You _will not_ lay a _hand_ upon my sister.”

She snarled, watching with pleasure as the first hints of panic started to flare up and become evident in his maliciously dark eyes.

“Go to it, pest.”

Thomas urged in a whisper. The gentle hand of his placed on her back, urging her, as his eyes then flickered up to Burke, whom he glared icily at.

Felicity stalked across the room, and threw her small little body into the armchair pressed into the corner. Reaching her small little arm in the vase, rooting around until her fingers clasped around what she was looking for. What she’d vowed was in there. Everyone around the room watched with baited breath as they waited to see if Burke had just told the most horrible lie, and attempted to pass it off as a true incident in the worst, most awful manner.

Everyone’s breath – except Marcus Burke’s - escaped in a rush of a satisfied relief.

They all saw that Felicity held a small pocket knife in her hand, precariously dangling the sharp item between two tiny pinched fingers.

Thomas’s breath was coming so raggedly through his lungs that his chest was swelling so hard in anger as a consequence. He had almost lost Elizabeth to the pre-planned cunning lie of the worst sort of honourless cad.

Elizabeth bit her lip, joyful tears bursting down from her eyes. And she suddenly became thankful for the most stupid thing. The simple fact that her sister had done something as mad as to hide inside a wardrobe, little did she knew, had done the most remarkable thing, it had saved Elizabeth’s life. And she would forever endeavor to make sure Felicity always knew how grateful she was for such a thing. In that moment. It wasn't Thomas. Or herself who saved her. It was dear, Sweet, Cheeky, Felicity. She had saved her big sister in ways she didn't even know of. 

Elizabeth, crying, sunk to her knees, and took felicity’s face in her hands. Her voice broken from the weeping, but she smiled as she spoke. Peppering kisses across her cheeks as she held her little heart shaped face.

“Thank you felic. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you so much. You don't know what you've done for me. For us.”

She wept. Hugging her sister close.

All eyes switched as a voice spoke up, into the room.

“You were lying. You _never_ ruined my Elizabeth...”

Sir Richard growled lowly to Burke from the doorway.

He did naught but swallow, eyes switching from one person to another. From the positively icy eyes of Mrs Sharpe, back across to the Duke. To eventually meet the stone cold blue glare from Elizabeth’s own eyes.

“Wait…”

Elizabeth spoke suddenly, drawing Felicity back from her arms.

“What on earth were you doing hiding in the wardrobe, Felicity?” She asked.

She watched as her little sister turned beet red, going all sheepish as she examined her shoes. She had hidden as to not be discovered. And if she did not want to be discovered. Then it was plain as day that she had come in here _accompanied_. 

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, standing up. Of course there had to be another person hidden somewhere in the room.

She straightened, coming to her full height once more.

“Pray. Show yourself _. Whoever_ you are…” She spoke aloud.

Thomas frowned, but watched with alarm, as the space near behind the huge vase in the corner of the room, as from behind it came a scuffle, which jostled the curtains. And they all watched as a small and shy frame of a boy, no more than seventeen, slowly rose to his feet. Wincing at what punishment awaited him from being caught out.

“Felicity.” Mrs Sharpe chided sharply.

“What’s your name, boy?”

Thomas asked with a gentle smile.

They watched as the adolescent swallowed in nervousness.

“Um... uh. Samuel Featheredge. Sir. Your Lordship.” He spoke in wobbly voiced anxiety.

“A witness outside the family. Now that should come in handy...”

“I agree with Felicity, Mi'lord.” Samuel spoke up, shattering the silence. “He didn’t do anything near ruination to Miss Elizabeth…” He insisted.

Thomas growled, turning to glare back at Burke. Who was looking a touch pale and in a state of unease himself.

“I ought to _kill_ you for what you’ve done…”

Thomas snarled, angrier than he can ever remember being, advancing before Elizabeth stopped him, pressing a hand to his firm chest as he advanced, fists clenched, and spitting pure poison at the man.

“Thomas. He’s not worth it.”

She spoke to her beloved. Trying her level best to halt him, before he killed the man, indeed with his bare hands, and was hanged for the crime.

Burke glared at Thomas through those dark evil eyes of his.

“You come near her again. Burke. And I will make you suffer such pain, you shall wish you’d never been born.” Thomas snarled in lethal promise.

“You step one foot in Derbyshire after we are wed, and I will see to it that you are thrown in prison to rot the rest of your forsaken life away.” He explained softly, with serious loathing.

“But for now, I suggest that you get out of England before I inform the authorities of what you attempted to do. They don’t take kindly to men who assault women.” He offered truthfully.

Burke looked ready to spit poison at the man.

“Good luck spending the rest of your life wed to that whore...” He spat, looking at Elizabeth.

Thomas’s fists clenched at that.

But it was Felicity Farrow whom the man glared at the most.

“You cost me my wife…”

Felicity narrowed her little coppery eyes at him.

“According to you, _Berk_. I only cost you her dowry. Seeing as you are now penniless…” She spat. Elizabeth and Thomas grinned to that _. Good on the Pest_.

He snarled lowly, advancing with his hand raised to try and attack Felicity.

Before anyone in the room could act. Thomas was at Burke’s throat, the slender lean man throwing the bulky figure into the wall, making sure to pummel his fist, _hard_ , twice against the man’s jaw, to which everyone heard a sickening crunch. Knowing enough that he had broken the man’s nose, and fractured his jaw at best.

“And you will not lay a hand on _any one_ member of _my_ family.”

He snarled, heaving Burke up by the collar and throwing him out of the door, so he landed on his back in the hallway. Sprawled with an inelegant gust of breath flat onto his back. Mr and Mrs Sharpe stepping back out of the way, watching with great senses of inward pleasure as the injured Burke scrambled to his feet.

But what they had not been counting on. Was the fact that Thomas and Elizabeth had far more powerful and influential friends than the handful of bachelors Burke had at his disposal. They had the ever loyal Sir Carlton, and the furiously dedicated Miss violet Burchrowe as their best friends. Whom, as they heard the scandalous news of Elizabeth’s ruination erupt throughout the room, knew instantly that it could not be true. And as such, decided to spread a little truth of their own to contradict it. They had been mid waltz when they had been made aware of such, and as a result they had stopped and instantly retired to the side of the dancefloor. Before Violet watched a cunning smile leap to Sir Carlton’s lips, and he tugged her close to whisper in her ear. And when she pulled away smiling, he knew right then that he had her cooperation on the task that would save both their best friends marriage. So they spread the information that Burke had broken into the party, and attacked Elizabeth Farrow. And miraculously, the tide turned. And they had one chore left to attend too… Violet and Benedict each taking a door, and tugging it open at the right moment, to help shed some light on the truth.

The real satisfaction of the evening - for Benedict - was when he saw how truly fiery Violet Burchrowe could be, As Mabel Loxley (loyal to Burke) had tried to stop them opening the double doors, and showcase her companions lies, Violet had stalked right up to the Diva’s face and suggest she removed her silly self from the room, lest she do it for her. And Benedict grinned at the bravado and pluck of the girl. Winking at her thereafter, making Violet smile across to him as they heaved the doors apart.

The double French doors that led down the hallway where the ‘scandal’ was taking place. Allowing all of the ladies and gentlemen at the party to crowd around the doors, and hear the true facts that Burke had ripped open her dress with a knife, and tried to lie her into ruination and marriage. And that Samuel Featheredge and Felicity Farrow had testified aloud to the fact that Elizabeth Farrow still retained her virtue. And that Burke was a liar.

Because when Marcus Burke heaved himself onto his feet from the beating that Thomas had given him, and brushed off his knees, he had straightened up, and looked down through the open doors, to see the entirety of the most elite members of London’s society glaring hell fury at him. All silent and surveying him with poison in their eyes. Letting him know, that they all knew he was the worst sort of liar and disgraceful blackguard. He seemed to shrink away because of the attention of many hundred pairs of eyes burning hatred at him. He turned on his heel, and scattered away, down the corridor. And that, was the last time that anyone saw the man for a long _long_ time.

(Word has it, straight from there, he was chased out of the country by the police as far as Dover. Presumably headed for France, With Mabel Loxley joining him. His name was never mentioned again by any upstanding member in society. The monstrosity of his lies faded away just like his memory and his name. Within six months, no one bothered to remember his name)

What happened next for the newlyweds was such a rush, they barely had time to breath. They found themselves tugged out of the little side room, and enclosed in a small gaggle of men and women. Elizabeth was nearly crushed by the weight of debutantes and mama’s that circled her and asked her about what had just proceeded. Declaring horror at her cut dress, and how they all thought how much of an animal Marcus Burke was. Thomas found he was clapped on the back and congratulated as a fine fellow for seeing off the scoundrel of a man. People rushed to shake the Dukes hand and declare him an upstanding gent.

But, it was safe to say, he didn’t care one jot about all that. He was searching for one woman amongst the crowds whom he really wanted to share a solitary moment with.

Almost as if he planned it, the last gaggle of gentlemen slid away, and the last few debutantes slid back from Elizabeth, and he was able to clap eyes on his fiancé once more. She felt the weight of his eyes stare at her, just as she finished conveying her thanks to Lady Spencer. Who walked away. Leaving her to meet Thomas’s eyes. Which made her smile when she did. For the second time that night, the room fell into a hush, as everyone watched Sir Thomas Kenworthy make his long legged way across the empty dance floor to the woman he was going to wed. Come hell or high water. Had he a moment to liken this occasion to another time. He’d rather liken it to the moment he first laid eyes on her. That night at an unassuming Dinner party. He remembers plain as day, watching her walk down the stairs, and with each step she took, he knew he was growing evermore in love with her. That was what he felt like now. With each stride towards her side, he fell deeper and deeper in love with her. And he could not wait to spend the rest of his life proving as such to her. Every second of every minute of every day. He’d devote his life to such an undertaking.

Elizabeth watched as he stopped, just centimeters away from her. Examining her for a moment. She was still in a state of disarray from earlier. Hair mussed, eyes red from weeping tears of sadness, and then joy. Her gown slashed down the front, and her pale skin haunted by the memory of Burke’s assaulting hands. And he much in the same state, His lip still cut and sore from the day before, his cravat loosely undone, sleeves rolled up. Hair in a tousled mess. But he didn’t care. Right then, to him, she looked as beautiful as a goddess. And he looked evermore like an ancient Grecian Gods sculpture come to life.

He smiled as he reached over, and took both her pale slender little hands in his. And for once, she met his eyes with a bold smile. Not caring at all that they were both the centre of attention. This was their moment. And my god, she was not going to shrink out of it. No matter how far her wall flower tendencies went. She was grabbing this glorious instant with him, with both hands and never letting go.

“My Lady. It is safe to say, that our path to marriage has not been a smooth one…”

He began. Feeling all the eyes in the room upon him, everyone silent and watching the both of them, not even daring to breathe loud in case they missed a thing.

Elizabeth smiled to this.

“We have had poor circumstance, individuals and rainstorms stand in our way. But allow me to say that this only serves to make me want to marry you all the more as a result. I want to spend the rest of my life devoted to making you happy. I cannot think of any better way to spend my time than using it to make you smile. I adore you, and I want to carry on adoring you for all the life I have left to live. My dearest…”

He started, sliding away, and sinking down onto one knee.

She smiled through a couple of elated tears which sprang down her cheeks. Watching as he pulled out a small box, with the most breath takingly beautiful sapphire and diamond clustered ring sat inside it, glinting up to her in the candlelight.

 

 

Later on, Felicity would tell her that the whole room was ecstatically energetic with cheers and hollers, wishing the couple well for their upcoming marriage.

But for now, Elizabeth could hear none of it. She could only hear the words of the beautiful man in front of her, who smiled a plea up to her.

“Will you marry me, Elizabeth Farrow?” He asked.

To which she nodded. So furiously, in fact, that it shook her whole body. And when he stood up again, she swayed on wobbly knees into his body, happily watching with such bliss it made her dizzy, as he took her left hand, and slid the perfectly sized ring onto her finger. Making her his wife.

He tugged her into his arms, smiling in jovial rapture as he pressed his forehead to hers. They looked off to the side as Benedict let out a huge wolf whistle. Violet grinning a beam stood by his side, Felicity giggling, her coppery eyes cheery at the sight of them. And Mrs Sharpe cried more tears of happiness at them both, as Sir Richard pressed his handkerchief into her hands.

They looked back, staring deep into each other’s eyes as they laughed and smiled.

Then one more familiar voice leapt to them like a staccato order from the short elderly frail figure of Lady Mannering, who thumped her cane up and down on the floor to make some more noise.

“Oh, _blast you, Kenworthy_ , you silly ruddy great twit. _Kiss the gel!!_ ”

She cried loudly above the din, her dark little beady eyes shining in mirth. They both smiled at that.

Thomas _always_ did as he was told.

He cupped Elizabeth’s head in his hands, slowly leaning in, and kissing her with such passion, as if there was no today, no tomorrow and no future.

 

They may not have had an idyllic fairy tale which led them to the altar, _but my god_ , they would have such a one after they left it as man and wife.

 

 

<3

 


	32. ~The Society Letters Of Lady Jane Plidebright~

 

 

 

Hello dear readers.

First comes some unfortunate news on my very behalf..

It appears that this author does not often have to contradict herself, but on this very merry occasion. It seems prudent that I use the phrase, ’eating my own words’

When this author pledged her final word on the matter regarding Elizabeth Farrow wedding the Handsome Duke of Chatsworth, she, honestly from the bottom of her heart, meant it, but now as the intended wedding day draws closer, she fears she must be a creature of a shameful hypocritical nature.

In precisely 24 hours, on a little Chapel on Holland Street, at precisely Noon, Miss Elizabeth Farrow shall cease to be, and Mrs Kenworthy, the Duchess of Chatsworth will take her place as a married woman. And this author is pleased to hear it. What with sordid and untrue rumors of the pitiable Marcus Burke breaking into Lady Landworthy’s London home and assaulting the gel, Felicity Farrow and Samuel Featheredge testified aloud to over 90 witnesses that Burke tried a merciless last ditch attempt at ruining Miss Farrow. Resulting in his hasty retreat to France, and Mrs Araminta Sharpe said Sir Thomas Kenworthy punched the worthless cad so hard, that to this day, he still bares purple bruises to his knuckles. Not a suitable condition for a grooms hands to be in upon his wedding day – but the lout _did_ deserve the assault, this author does like to exclaim. And then, readers, he is remarked to have strode across a dance floor, sunken onto one knee, and presented Miss Farrow with an engagement ring, the stone of which was the size of a tennis ball – according to the over fluffed exaggerations of Felicity Farrow – and she accepted him, and the wedding will dawn bright and clear tomorrow, as joyful as there ever was a reunion between one man, and one woman.

Meanwhile, the villain to this Fairy Tale, is reported to have been arrested in Calais. By French Police, and imprisoned for his crimes of assault of a young lady, and owing nearly £80,000 pounds in debts and taxes to every gambling lord and loan shark from Clerkenwell, to the Isle of Dogs.

I hope all of London joins me in wishing Marcus Burke to rot in the cells for what he has done. For he shall never be accepted back into society for his crimes and wicked ways, as long as this author lives to draw breath.

And I similarly hope that all of London also joins me in wishing soon-to-be Mr and Mrs Kenworthy joy. And to have a most exultant and amorous Honeymoon.

Derbyshire soon has the most starry-eyed and loving couple to receive as its proud Duke and Duchess. May they live, as the nauseating expression goes,

Happily. Ever. After?

(I would pledge it my final word on the matter, but I fear that wish will go flying out of the window was soon as there is to be heard, very soon this author predicts, the little pitter patter of tiny Kenworthy feet to follow shortly after the couples wedded bliss.

Mark my words, dear readers, mark, my, words, well, indeed.…)

 

 

~ Lady Jane Prideblight’s Gossip Column, April 29th ~

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	33. Wedding Days, Joyful Tears, and Dukes and Duchesses...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> <3

  

~ Elizabeth's Wedding Dress ~

 

 

 

Elizabeth examined herself in the dresser’s mirror ahead of her, as Nessie, usually so brutal handed with such touches as affixing her hair, was being unusually gentle today. Perhaps the thought that it was the last time she would undertake the chore, therefore she decided that making Elizabeth wince and shriek through it, was not of something she desired to inflict upon her friend. As it truly was the last time she would ever aid Miss Farrow, do her hair. Because, henceforth, in about 30 or so minutes, her surname would be ‘Farrow’ no longer. It would be Kenworthy.

“It seems so bloomin’ odd that this’ll be the last time I’ll ever get to dress yer hair. Farrow.”

Nessie spoke up gently, her voice softened by nostalgia and emotion. As she tilted off to the side, and slid in another pin. Elizabeth watched in the mirror, as Felicity appeared behind them, twirling about the room in her new white silk Bridesmaids dress, tied with a cream bow about her little waist. The sleeves of such were sheer, and ended mid elbow. And Elizabeth smiled as she saw her swirl the skirts in her hands appreciatively to Mrs Sharpe, on the far side of the little dressing room.

“I know. It is a strange notion. I think today is the first of many new beginnings for me. From here on out, it seems almost odd to think that I won’t give 34 Montague Street as my address anymore, nor Farrow as my last name, Or London my home...” She wondered with a tiny smile.

“But you’ll be the _Duchess of Chatsworth_...”

Nessie explained, grinning at her exultant friend in the mirror. Before Elizabeth watched her make a big song and dance of doing a goofy curtsey, holding out the pale blue chiffon skirts ahead of her as she did.

“Mi’Lady..” She spoke loudly and in a most japing manner. Faking a haughty tone.

Elizabeth laughed at her silly antics.

“Oh, please. Nessie. As if I could ever have anyone call me that. I imagine it should take the rest of my life to get used to such a title...” she smiled, adoring the style Nessie was achieving with her hair. She had really outdone herself this time. Twisting her long red tresses into such an elegant array, it would sadden Elizabeth later on, to take out the pins and destroy it.

“I’m sure your husband will make you feel at ease with it, Farrow.” Nessie winked.

“Thomas is the most finest gentleman. And I know not one other woman in England who will be treated so well when you’re wed. You must feel like the luckiest lady in the whole world.” She beamed, in awe.

“Yes. Yes I dare say I _shall_ …”

Elizabeth grinned, smiling down into her lap, fiddling with the expensive engagement ring which sat proudly in place on her left hand. Knowing soon, another wedding band would join it. And then she would be the most jubilant bride in all the world. For she already looked the part, Mrs Sharpe insisted she looked, radiant and glowing, for her wedding day. And that’s because she was. The moment she had woken up, she had not stopped smiling. (Felicity remarked that it looked like her Sister had slept with a boot-stretcher in her mouth) But Elizabeth did not care. She simply let her happiness swallow up any retort she would have otherwise made. She had not been made up overmuch. But Araminta had spared no expense for the high end cosmetics which she purchased for her Eldest’s wedding day. Elizabeth had been showered with fine gifts from her Stepmother. With diamond hair clips for her hair. New diamond earrings, a lace bridal veil imported all the way from Italy. The cream silk ribbon sewn on her dress fetched all the way across the channel from France. And she had raided a cosmetic’s counter to get her hands on exquisite ladies powders, shimmers, rouges and god knows what else, for Elizabeth to wear for her trek up the aisle. So her complexion as of now truly did look prettier than she had ever known it. Shimmer and rouge powder on her cheeks, colour on her eyelids and darkened lashes. Her blue eyes lit up like flaxen as a result, and her beautiful smile rendered everyone speechless at how happy she was.

“Almost done here, Farrow. My life’s finest work. Not to toot me own horn an’ all.” She spoke cheekily, affixing the last few coils of hair to loop up to join the arrangement which she had spent a long while crafting.

“…And how is the blushing bride?”

Felicity asked as she appeared, slinging her arms to the back of the chair in which Elizabeth was sat. Her cheeky little face alight with a wide grin, her copper eyes jovial and delighted. Libby flickered her blues off across to her sister. As she beamed back.

“She is wondering how the littlest pest is faring?” She asked with gentle japing.

“Trying to keep Mrs Sharpe from weeping tears of delight…” Felicity remarked dryly, watching as their mother in law crossed to them all, rolling her eyes at Felicity.

“Enough out of you, you little cheek. I only wept a little when we left home..”

“Before we _left_ home…” Felicity pointed out blandly.

“And in the hallways before we were _out_ of the front door…”

Elizabeth pointed out in a murmur her hand touching the back of her coiffure.

Mrs Sharpe frowned at her two daughters, as Nessie grinned out a bark of laughter at hearing such.

“For heaven’s sake. You two to vex me something awful...” She smiled through a barbed insult. “

Pray, Elizabeth, seeing as you are somewhat closer to the event than Felicity, to having children of your own, when you do bare a child, and they are to be wed, you will tell me how _you feel_ at the time when such a moment arrives…”

She warned with a wise wag of her finger, her hankie clutched in her other hand. Elizabeth reached over and laid a slender pale hand atop her Stepmothers. Mrs Sharpe was dressed in a fine peacock blue day dress, simply cut, with only pearl earrings in her ears. And her greying hair pulled to a fine updo atop her hair. She had relatively little decoration on her today. She looked nicely attired, and suited every inch the tasteful mother of the bride.

“I am certain I shall be just as moved as you. If not more. Forgive us Mrs Sharpe. We were only japing. I wager you will miss such a thing when I am gone, and you’ve only Felic to contend you with your match making efforts...” Elizabeth pointed out as Nessie looked for any stray remaining hairs that needed rounding up. Winking to her stepmother.

“Pray do not remind me that I’m left with the silliest pest in all the land…” Mrs Sharpe grinned, watching as Felicity scowled at her.

Mrs Sharpe took Libby’s chin in her hand, seeing the beautiful face of half her world looking back up at her. Before she was off to go and be married. Her little girl, walking down the aisle to wed the most wonderful man. It made tears of joy, anew, spring to her eyes.

“And pray do not also remind me of how much I shall miss you, Loveliest Elizabeth.” Mrs Sharpe cooed.

“You’re done, Farrow.” Nessie exclaimed.

So Libby stood, and collapsed her Stepmother in a wonderfully crushing hug. Holding her tight, and letting her know how grateful she was for the woman being in her life. Yes, she may have been silly, and she may have had such ridiculous notions as to her nerves. But she was patient, she had held Elizabeth’s hand through awful fevers as a child, through the sadness of losing her mother. Through the joy of finding the man she wished to wed. And she would never have had it any other way. She had been a true mother through and through to her stepchildren. And though it pained Elizabeth to think her real mother was not here to witness this day, or to meet her beloved Thomas. She would want no other to take Mrs Sharpe’s place. She loved her as her mother. It was as simple as that.

“Thank you, for everything. _Mother_.”

Elizabeth cried joyfully. Seeing Mrs Sharpe held her back with such vigor. It brought tears to both Nessie’s and Felicity’s eyes. The little whispered statement of love could bring down stoic stiff upper lipped stance of Nessie Ballard. And that, in itself, was a _very_ powerful thing.

“Oh my dear...”

Araminta exclaimed when she pulled back, touching a hand to Libby’s cheek.

“I hope you know how much I love you, dearest. And may I say, that you are the most stunning bride in all the world. Elizabeth. And I wish you every happiness, you are truly beautiful inside and out, my darling. Thomas is going to have the finest Duchess in England on his arm.”

“It is mad to think I shall soon be a titled lady...” Elizabeth smiled. Her stomach squirming in fuzzy nerves.

“In 25 minutes no less, you shall be as such...” Araminta winked.

Libby smiled, biting her lip in blissful nervousness.

“Come on, we still need to affix your veil..”

Mrs Sharpe took her hand and leading her over to the stand. Helping her atop it, so they could fix the veil to the back of her hair. She gracefully stepped up, as Nessie and Felicity attended to the cumbersome skirts behind her. Sweeping the train out of the way.

Elizabeth scanned herself head to toe in the full body mirror. Seeing that the jubilant face of a grown up bride stared back at her from the reflection. Red hair perfectly arranged, white wedding gown making her look angelically neat and poised. Blue eyes glittering in too much happiness.

All eyes turned to the door for a second as they all saw Violet glide through it, cheeks a little reddened, and breathless, wispy curls of walnut hair leading down the back of her neck, and she was biting her lips in nervousness. No doubt rushing as she had been worried about being late. But as soon as she saw her friend, her worry faded away, and he hazel eyes grew fond and wide as she looked at the sight before her. Elizabeth was relieved to see that her clumsy friend had managed not to spill anything down her white dress, not the cream ribbon synched tight about her waist. The dress was the same design as Felicity’s, sheer white muslin on the sleeves, but Violet’s fully grown adult figure better filled her dress at the hips and thighs, unlike her sister’s.

“Oh, Elizabeth...”

She grinned slowly as she saw her friend, the glowing bride, highlighted by a shaft of sunlight from the dressing room window. Making her red hair like spun flame, and her eyes glow like sapphire flaxen as she stood there. The flawless vision of happiness. As Araminta placed the clips of the veil to the back of her hair, truly making her into a perfect bride.

“Don’t you dare start blubbing too. Violet Burchrowe. Leave me with a better opinion of you. I expected better…” Elizabeth spoke sternly, pointing a reproving finger at her friend.

But she could already see it was too late. Violet’s lip wobbled, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, to stifle her happy sobs.

“Heaven help me.”

Libby rolled her eyes, with the veil safely on the back of her head. She stepped down from the stand, and crossed, taking her weeping friends hands in her own.

“ _You’re a bride_...” Violet explained in a weepy tone.

“Well spotted. Burchrowe. How observant you are…” Elizabeth smirked.

Violet smiled wryly at her friend.

“Now. Even after all you have done for me and Thomas already, I still have one more favour to ask of you…” She explained, crossing to the table, and walking back over to Violet, with a small little blue velvet box in her hands.

“On, now, Elizabeth. You should know it’s inappropriate for you to propose to me on your wedding day…” Violet sarrced.

She smiled at her friend. She was going to miss her jokes terribly when she was gone.

“It’s for Thomas. I know I am not supposed to give him a wedding ring. But, This seems right, to me. After all he has done for me...” She explained fondly. Tucking the box into her friend’s hand. Holding it tight thereafter.

“Would you be so good as to go give it to him? Bad luck for the bridegroom to see the bride, and all such bother...” She smiled. Watching as Violets eyes grew warm with emotion and happiness.

“I think you and he have endured enough bad luck to last an entire six lifetimes, Elizabeth…” Violet winked. Crossing to the door, simpering, and as she slid away.

“That _is true_ …”

Felicity exclaimed to Violet’s words, as she sat on the chair, eagerly swinging her legs back and forth as Nessie retouched the hairdo that the little minx had mussed up with her wandering hands. So much so, that Nessie was forced to slap her hands away when Felicity’s peripatetic little fingers reached up to twiddle her hair once again.

“I had no idea you brought him a ring...” Mrs Sharpe exclaimed to Elizabeth, who turned to her stepmother, after tugging on her veil to get it to set a little more evenly.

“After all he has done for me, and for our family. How could I not?” Libby asked.

Araminta smiled. Truly touched by how deep Elizabeth’s and Thomas’s love for one another went. It was so heartening to see such a sight. She was confident she had never seen a couple more ready or suited to marriage than the two of them.

“How long, Mrs Sharpe?” She asked with wonderful spasms of nerves shooting all over her, like hot magnificent flutters of love.

“Fifteen minutes, my dear…”

She answered, as she helped tie Felicity’s bow about her waist a little tighter.

Elizabeth exhaled a deep breath, smiling to herself in the mirror.

In fifteen minutes, she would marry the love of her life. And begin her life afresh in Derbyshire as his wife.

And she could _not_ wait.

 

 

~

 

 

 

Almost directly opposite the Bridal party, in the same side dressing room of the same church, There was the slightly smaller, and less extravagant, but no less happy, Groomsman party. Which, for now consisted of Sir Carlton, relentlessly trying to get Sir Thomas’s annoying cravat to cooperate, as the Duke had such fumbling fingers with ecstatic nerves, it was impossible for him to do. He had already lost a good twenty minutes attempting to fix it himself, but to no avail. So his best man had to step in and assist in the task.

“Never, Let. Go. Of your valet...”

Benedict grunted, in an order. Twisting and turning the stubborn knot about his friend’s neck. Whom had his head craned high for him to accomplish the task.

“In fact...” He spoke up again, his tongue touching his top lip in pure concentration.

“I think you may need to increase his wages…” Benedict grunted softly, attempting to wrench his stuck finger free as he had finally managed to trap it into a knot that would stay where it was placed.

Thomas looked, as ever, a truly fetching gentleman in his wedding attire. He wore a black velvet jacket, over a cream silk waistcoat, with a pressed linen shirt, and an even crisper cravat. He had his customary black boots reaching up to his calves, and fine black breeches, with a white wedding band running down the side of his legs. Usually, he would have worn his 10th Hussars uniform. But that was all the way back home, in Derbyshire. And Benedict would have done the same, were he no so inclined to be on ‘Thomas’s side’ when it came to being attired in a civilian’s wedding suit. His consisted of the same velvet jacket, except his trousers were grey, and his waistcoat, a jet black, with a dove grey silk cravat about his neck. Thomas truly stole the biscuit as the dashing Groom.

“How long now?”

Thomas asked, nervously twiddling his hands, Benedict had never known the man to be such a flustered hen about a situation. He had seen the man brave the battlefield with a barely trembling hand, and yet here he was, about to walk up the aisle to wed the woman of his dreams, and he was trembling like a leaf in the wind. Mind, Benedict had never seen him quite so _happy_ , either.

Sir Carlton’s eyes flickered across to the clock.

“All but twenty minutes, your lordship. Pray do not work yourself in a snit.” Benedict grinned widely like the fool of a rake he was;

“I was not.” Thomas fought back with a smile.

“ _Oh_ , but you were. Kenworthy.” Benedict insisted.

“Was _not._ ”

“ _Was too_.”

“Absolutely _was not_.”

“ _Absolutely was_ too.”

“You’re being an idiot...” Thomas offered.

“And you, your royal Dukeness, are being _stubborn._ ” He smiled.

Thomas sighed angrily, though, he was grinning.

“I’m allowed to be stubborn to my idiot of a best man on my wedding day...” Thomas smiled.

Benedict tweaked the finishing touches to the groom’s cravat.

“I beg of you sir, be a little more insulting, why don’t you…” He groaned.

“And, I think I have finally succeeded...” He insisted. Stepping back to see that it was done. _(Wonky)_ but they couldn’t have everything.

“How do I look?” Thomas asked.

Benedict smiled, clapping a hand to his friend’s finely suited velvet shoulder.

“So handsome, that if Elizabeth does not rise to the occasion and marry you, I may just jump in there and do so myself...” He winked like a rascal.

“As ever, your honesty is greatly supportive...” Thomas sighed, rolling his eyes and raising a wry brow to his friend. His shaky fingers straightening the skewwhiff attempt that Sir Benedict the clumsy, had made of his neck tie.

“You look splendid, Mi’Lord...Ever maidens fair dream…” He bowed.

Thomas took a deep steadying breath, examining the tall length of his full dressed self in the mirror. Complete with a rose in his right buttonhole. His hair neatly brushed back on his head, but still a couple of straight obsidian strands fell into his eyes like they always did.

“I only wish to be _one_ certain maiden’s fair dream…”

He explained in a gentle slope of a dreamy smile that let Benedict know, that he was thinking of his Bride. He shook his head, Mrs Kenworthy – pending – and Mr kenworthy looked at each other like they were only ever two love sick fools with hearts and eyes for one another. It was sickening really, if but a little sweet to witness. Their love for one another ran bone deep. He should only be so lucky, as to wed as well as his friend.

“And don’t _we all_ know it...” Benedict smiled.

“I mean what I said, you know…” Thomas grinned, looking at his friend from the mirrors reflection.

Benedict frowned to the Groom, as he combed a hand through his hair to brush back an errant flopping curl which lolloped against his forehead.

“One day, if you ever manage to recover your soul from the dark lord Satan, and come to know a thing such as love, Carlton, and finally face up to wedding an some poor unlucky woman, then get back to me on how love, can indeed, alter the path of your entire life…” He smirked.

“Or in your case, keep you obedient to just one Lady for the rest of your days on this earth...” He added.

Benedict stood to his full height, and gazed with annoyance at his grinning friend.

“Careful. Or I will set my sights on your wife. You know how well I appreciate a good experienced _courtesan_ of a married lady…” Benedict japed. Smirking like the devil.

“ _Oh, now_. I give Elizabeth far more credit than that, to think she could ever be felled by the likes of you.”

Thomas grinned. Fussing with his lapels and not meeting his friend’s eyes. Having the utmost faith that his wife was far too smitten to pay Carlton’s flirting any mind. Even if he did have what society Mama’s deemed as a ‘ _deeply dangerous’_ smile.

“Besides… I think love is starting _to weaken_ you already…” Thomas smirked proudly in his prediction.

Benedict frowned. “Who-“

He began to ask. But at that precise moment. That certain _“who”_ slid through the door, after knocking gently on it. And they watched as Violet Burchrowe, the second bridesmaid, slid into the room. An absolute angelic vision in her white silk bridesmaid’s gown. – _To Sir Benedicts eyes. Anyway._ Her hair was elegantly coiffed half up, and half the curls spilling down her back in a wavy waterfall of walnut curls. Ones he wanted to curl his fingers through, and when she smiled it was one that made her eyes brightened by it, and her lovely heart shaped mouth become wide and ripe, like fruit he wanted to nibble at.

He swallowed. And saw she frowned at the mushy sight of him as he stared, slack jawed at her, blinking through words that humankind had not yet defined as intelligible speech.

“Heelbbiedeeldaddd.”

He mumbled, sighing as he properly took in all of her beauty. Thomas frowned at him. Eyes darting from him to her. Violet was looking at the man like he had sprouted an extra set of legs.

“Here on earth, we usually like to open conversations by saying ‘Hello’ ”

Thomas informed him wittily, before he waved off the silly idiot and turned to Violet.

“How _may I_ help you? Miss Burchrowe, I fear Benedict’s brain is busy circling Venus at present...” Thomas sarrced, watching his friends moony eyed look.

She crossed the room, wary of Sir Carlton’s eyes on her.

“Forgive me, for the intrusion, Sir Thomas. But your Wife bade me to award you this…” She explained, moving across to the Groom, and pressing the little box into his hand.

“She says after all you have done for her, then she could not have procured you a wedding ring as an apt thank you.” She smiled softly.

Thomas chuckled softly, as he snapped open the box to see the plain simple gold wedding band that nestled inside of it. He could see it was also engraved. With a loopy calligraphic ‘TK’ and ‘EVK’ sat in the centre of the inside of the band. That made him smile like mad.

“Thank you.”

He spoke sincerely on love worn vocal chords to Violet. Who smiled as she moved off out of the door once again.

Benedict, who finally landed back down on earth, and whom had relocated his vocal chords, and his brain, once more, managed to burst out a loud sentence that made her recoil, but smile lightly in amusement as he snapped it across to her.

“You. You look very nice, Miss.” He burst out before he could think that he was shouting the compliment at her.

They watched as she blushed and slid away, shutting the door after her.

Benedict swallowed. Knowing he had just made a huge fool of himself.

“I could have led with that. Couldn’t I?” He asked Thomas, as he nervously twiddled his fingers about.

Thomas grinned.

“Then you would not have been yourself…” He awarded.

“Now come on…”

The Groom chided, walking across the room, and sliding a white rose into the buttonhole on his lapel. Grabbing his friend nicely by his jacket front and jolting some sense into the lovesick fool.

“Buck your ideas and senses up. Carlton. I’m getting _married_ in fifteen minutes, _you know_.” He winked.

 

 

~

 


	34. Vows, Elated Tears, and Mr and Mrs Kenworthy...

 

 

 

Thomas was aflutter with twice as potent nerves as he stood at the altar, beside the Vicar. Benedict rising to his feet, as the wedding march music began, swallowing as the doors to the end of the humble little chapel, peeked open, and showed him the wonders and splendour that lay beyond as the bridal party came to view.

To say that the Sir Thomas, the Duke of Chatsworth was stricken with speechlessness, would have been the grossest of understatements.

Benedict was diverted to see his friend so joyful by the good grace of one woman’s presence. It was fair to exclaim himself that he wagered Thomas’s heart, stomach, legs, arms, brain, spleen, kidneys and every other internal organ he possessed, were positively fluttering with nerves.

The kind of nerves that, even when you are stood perfectly still, make your body feel as itinerant and as rootless as a herd of bees swarming around a hive. The kind that, even though you aren’t making a sound, to you, the air feels like it’s humming, crackling, fizzling and fit to burst with noise and tension. Emitting a low humming sound that broadcasts audible nervousness from every pore of your being.

And for such an individual as Thomas to be utterly awash with fuzzy nervousness, one needn’t tell you that it took a rather momentous event indeed to put the Practical man at such a disposition. An event such as hearing the wedding march begin, and the doors to the far end of the aisle swing inwards, to show him the angel in white that was his bride, smiling her lovely smile at her Father as they began the march to give her away to her betrothed.

Thomas could not avert his stare for anything in the world. He had never seen a woman look the way she did. She was radiant, awe-inspiring. Her beauty made him feel for an odd moment that no mortal man, such as he, could deserve a goddess such as her. His breath got lost somewhere between his chest and his throat. Choking him. As he grinned widely, beside himself with nerves, not even daring to breathe too loud, lest he miss a single wonderful second of this. Her glory brought a tear to his eye that he ignored. He was a tempest of swirling emotion right then, of love, joy, impatience, pride, and astonishment as to his glowing Bride whom, he could tell, was wearing her best most brilliant gentle smile under the cloak of the wedding veil, all for him, and for him alone. No other man would ever have that smile. And that thought makes him _melt_.

He had spent most of the night twisting his long fingers in his bed sheets, denting the malleable fabric with his nervous hands. Just watching the dark ceiling and not finding any ebbs of sleep whatsoever to coax his eyelids shut so he could rest. He had counted every tick of the loud clock in Benedict’s guest room, and allowed his eyes to scan over the small sliver of darkness that gradually grew to light from in-between the curtains. And still not one whisper of tiredness gripped his body. He doesn’t even remember how he got bathed, dressed, brushed his teeth, fixed his hair, or got to the church this morning. Because it doesn’t matter. None of it matters now.

All that matters, is that in approximately two minutes, the love of his life would be next to him, after having walked down that aisle, and after that, they would be married.

Husband and Wife. Him and Her. Bride and Groom. Mr and Missus. Mr and Mrs Kenworthy. Duke and Duchess of Chatsworth.

Like an alerted predator he stood fidgeting in his Wedding suit. Clenching his eager and erratic hands into fists, and then releasing them again.

He couldn’t help himself. As soon as his eyes set upon her, dressed in the absolute glory that was her delectably beautiful wedding dress, he didn’t want to wait a second longer, he wanted to run, sprint, down the aisle, gather her into his strong arms, and be pronounced her Husband there and then. With not a second longer to wait.

He swallowed just before his best man by his side, gave him a not so discreet elbow in the ribs. Thomas tore his eyes away from the door down the aisle and looked at Benedict. Who gave a calm and warm smile in an attempt to soothe his friends frazzled and frayed nerves. Thomas, to his credit, actually managed a small completely insincere twitch of an impatient smile to flex his lips for one second, before his pallor snapped back to the pile of nerves that it was seemingly composed by this morning. His eyes then left his friend, and turned back down the aisle where a vision in white was still softly gliding towards him, holding onto her Father’s arm. With Pest, and Violet behind them in tow as elegant Bridesmaids clad in angelic white.

He swallowed again, smiling so wide, his cheeks hurt. Finally this was it, the moment his entire being had been screaming with nerves from for the past 48 hours, that honestly felt like they had spanned a thousand slow and torturous years in exile for him. Shortly, he would get to fulfil the wishes that had been plaguing his body since he had first clapped eyes on the glorious woman that was Elizabeth Farrow, all those many moons ago at a Family Dinner Party that had changed his entire life. And to which he could not be any more the gladder for it having done so. _He really couldn’t_. Because he had dreamt of this actuality in a thousand different ways. But nothing his mind had conjured was as wonderful as the giddying reality of it all.

All time seemed to slow down, like it was underwater, treading thickly and slowly through seconds and minutes. All he could _see and think_ was _her_. In that lovely dress he knew only she could pick out of hundreds to want to marry him in. It was slim and form fitting, tied with an off white bow to her lovely slender waist, the material splayed forwards over her legs every time she took a step. His eyes travelled upwards, seeing the material grow tighter around her lovely figure from the A line skirt. He saw her lovely arms bound with expensive Italian lace that he had heard Mrs Sharpe crowing so fantastically about, as the lovely slim things of hers were bent inwards to clutch a bouquet of white and off white flowers that he knew took her ages to decide which ones she wanted. Before she changed her mind, and then changed it back again. All in attempts to reach the perfect wedding bouquet for the occasion.

He smiled as she neared, her face hidden well under the large white veil that hid her face, he could see her hair was pulled up into a messily done style, and he could sense that a large smile was creasing her face too. Just like the one that was gracing his lips. Near splitting his face in two. Because she had been rendered equally as silly as he had, by the happy occasion, if not more so.

She was so close now, Thomas swore that he could smell that sweet fragrance that warmed his stomach lining when it led him to know that was the comforting aroma of his imminently-to-be wife. Lillie’s, Honey and Lavender. It made him love her more, and it made him ache for the warm heat of her skin. And he is moved to see that she was nearly by his side, she was nearly his bride now. And that was when an overwhelming sense of calm gripped him. A sense that he could have her for the rest of his life. He could wake up to her, by his side, each blissful and happy morning. He could spend hours in the day dissecting the beauty of her mole clusters, her freckle constellations, or the gentle swan like build of her neck, should he choose too. He could do all those mad little enamoured things that he had not been able to yet indulge himself in. He could read to her, lie with her and count the stars with her, whom, it had to be said, the constellations and heavens whose beauty paled in comparison to hers, no matter how fine he thought the heavens were, they were droplets in a rainstorm when he compared them to her loveliness. He could take dinner with her, and watch, each day, as she would never age to his eyes. They could both be wrinkled, crippled and aged before he would ever stop to consider that they were not the two young beauties that they had once been anymore. Because to his eyes, she was exquisite. And no matter what toll age would take upon her skin, she would eternally remain that way to him. Forever. He wanted her in that calm moment. In lustful ways, in needing ways, in mad ways. He wanted to own her smile, the prettiest smile in all of London, and when he took her back to Derbyshire, well, she’d have the most wonderful smile in all of there too. He wanted to see her, after they made their marriage a true one, that maybe, some far off day in the not too distant future, that she would eventually grow heavy with his first child. And as many others as she wanted to bare. He wanted her so madly, and happily, that it was almost too much. His love for her was too much. He knew. But he didn’t pay the mad severity of it any heed whatsoever. He hated being the fool, but he’d willingly be a fool in love. For that, he remarked, was the best kind of fool there was.

He watched as Elizabeth looked back to her father one last time, giving his hand a firm and ecstatic squeeze. As he smiled through his joyful tears at his eldest. Leaning in to his fairest, and lovely eldest daughter, so alike her mother in made him glad, and placed a single tender kiss to her veiled forehead as he clamped her elegant hands in his own. Letting her know that he was parting with her only because Thomas had proved himself so worthy and deserving of her. And how sorely he would miss her sense, and her magnificence. He retired from the aisle to Join Mrs Sharpe, Felicity and Violet on the front pew to the Brides side to the right. There weren’t many in attendance, just a few selected beloved family and friends. Her mother’s sister, Aunt Cordelia and Uncle Henry sat behind her family, with all her four young cousins in attendance too. And to the Groom’s side, sat a few soldiers and the bristly and astute mutton chopped form of the Colonel from Thomas and Benedict’s regiment. Aswell as the doddery old frail frame of Lady Mannering, who smiled a sly wrinkled smile at the two of them, rolling her eyes and thumping her cane down as she saw Kenworthy go all pathetic at his bride. But seeing as this was to be an advantageous occasion, she’d allow him a little emotion. Benedict bowed a smiling nod to Thomas and Elizabeth, before he sat next to the frail huddled frame of his aged Aunt in the front pew.

They all watched as Thomas then held out his arm for her, and watched as her hand slid away from her fathers, and grasped his own, and when his skin touched the lithe warm embrace of her slender hand, a jolt rushed through him, and he grinned over to her because of it. Because she could never conceive how that bolt of lightning that rushed through him when he touched her hand, made him know that he didn’t just desire and want her in all the normal ways a man should want his wife. It wasn’t a usual, _I-haven’t-ever-had-a-woman-in-my-bed_ sort of want. It was painful and urgent, it was a jolt that stole his breath from his body all in under a second.

She stepped forwards to come next to him, as Thomas carried on beaming that handsome smile at her, able to make out her beauty, even from under the cloak of the lace covering her face, as they drew level, coming side by side, her hand still in his as they stepped a little closer to Reverend Granger, who smiled to the both of them. Seeing such raw love in their stance as Thomas tucked his fiancé’s arm into the crook of his elbow as they stood, awaiting people to be seated on the pews as the organ music faded away. And the only sounds that could be heard were the sounds of men women, and children alike, sit down on the wooden benches, the sounds of clothes rustling, and bodies relaxing to the comfort of the seating to watch the proceedings take place.

“Dearly Beloved…”

He began, smiling at the giddily enamoured couple in front of him. They had met with him last week to talk through what would be said at their wedding, and after their meeting, taking tea with the kind aged man of the cloth, he declared he had never seen before, in all his life, a couple more suited to each other, and marriage, than them.

“We are gathered here today, family and friends of Thomas Kenworthy and Elizabeth Farrow, under the sight of god, and in the face on this chosen and cherished congregation to join this man, and this woman, together in holy matrimony… Thomas and Elizabeth stand here today to offer their love to one another, and to pledge their vows to be taken by one another in front of all those whom they love, as they declare their longing to be made man and wife…”

Thomas squeezed his wife’s hand tightly at that, loving that they were here, together, at last, after all the hell they had been put through of nearly being denied this privilege to wed one another at the hands of one scheming monster. Because he would have no other woman by his side for anything in the world. As soon as he saw her, he _knew_ it had to be her.

“…Which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee; and is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained…”

Thomas could not take his eyes off her, and nor could she take hers off him, both of them grinning like mad fools, remarked Lady Mannering to her Nephew, who giggled in a baritone rasp as a result.

“…First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name. Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body. Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

They listened as nothing but whispers of relatives about how lovely the bride looked, and silence met the priest’s enquiry.

“She is the most beautiful bride I have _ever_ seen...”

Mrs Sharpe wept happily into her handkerchief as Felicity rubbed her Stepmother on the shoulder. Sir Richard patted the back of her hand in reassurance and agreement.

“You may please, present the wedding rings...”

He then asked to Benedict. Who, being the reliable Groomsman, stepped forwards, beaming, and placed the two little golden bands into the Reverend’s hands.

“Thomas, take Elizabeth’s ring, face her, and repeat these words after me...”

He instructed. And Elizabeth watched with bliss as Thomas took the ring from the vicar’s outstretched palm, and stood, poised, facing her, waiting to softly speak his vows to her as she could feel his hot loving blue stare pierce the veil, and ignite such love, it crushed her breath right out of her body, replacing all the sense she possessed with joyful heady delight. Her eyes flickered down to see that the ring that lay resting in her husband’s palm, bore a single round diamond upon the gold band, which she knew was engraved with their initials, and the date of the wedding. Wednesday, the 1st of May, in the year of the lord, 1858.

"Thomas, Wilt thou have this woman, to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in, sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep only unto her, so long as you both shall live?” The Reverend asked.

Thomas grinned in pure beaming love, eyes bright and smile as jovial as she had ever seen it, as he declared;

“I Will.”

He spoke slowly and confidently as he shot Elizabeth his most melting smile that belonged to her, and her alone, now. His eyes looked radiant and his face was the picture of happiness as he took her hand gently, and slid the ring to glide effortlessly onto her left hand. As that cool heavy band of diamond studded gold, bedecked with their names and todays date, rested on her finger, she felt the knowledge that in the eyes of God and England, she now belonged to him for the rest of her life.

Elizabeth beamed as she felt the ring rest in place at the bottom of her finger. She made a silent vow to herself right then. That she would never part with it, so long as she lived. She wouldn’t slide it off for anything or anyone in the world.

“Elizabeth…”

The Reverend continued, forcing the woman to turn and face him, taking in his words as she would repeat the vows Thomas had just ushered to her.

“Take this ring, and face Thomas, to declare to him, your acceptance of his vows…”

He Instructed. Thomas watched as the slender elegant hand of his bride, reached over and plucked the ring demurely from the Vicar’s hand, and took his calloused smooth hand in her own, her eyes stealing up to his, and even under the cloak of the veil, he could see that the wonderful blue orbs of hers looked no less lovely - even when shrouded.

“Elizabeth, Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” He asked.

Elizabeth’s heart skipped ten thousand beats, as she swallowed, choking back her tears before she answered, her smile so wide and bright, it left her face aching.

“I Will.”

She nodded in absolute loving adoration. Her voice softened and breaking with the emotion that choked her throat. If there was a world around them, or a church full with her loved friends and equally as much loved family members, she didn’t see them, nor the world. She saw nothing beyond her Husband’s smile, and jovial eyes, glinting with yet unshed tears.

He watched, barely containing his wonderfully elated smile, as Elizabeth gently slid her wedding ring onto his slim finger. Stroking his hand for a tender moment after she slid it into place. He had already decided that hell would freeze over before he ever took it off. Her felt her fingertips gently caress his palm as she squeezed her hand tightly. Unable to believe that happiness that was now pouring through him. Shining out of every pore, he was certain.

“Now, Thomas, take Elizabeth’s right hand, and repeat these words after I say them. I, Thomas _.,_ take thee, Elizabeth..” The Reverend spoke.

“I, Thomas _,_ _gladly_ , take thee, Elizabeth..” He parroted.

“….To be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…”

“….To be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…” Thomas repeated, and there was something about the way he snuck his tongue around the word ‘have’ with a sly smile, that made Elizabeth’s stomach flip in plentiful excitement.

Reverend Granger smiled at the two, their eyes seemed to be bonded to one another’s. In a way he had not seen often in many other Victorian couples.

“…To love, and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my faith.” He continued.

To _love_ , and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my faith.” He finished. Bringing her hand up to his lips to place a kiss upon it.

“Very well...” The Reverend bestowed him in a smiled compliment before he soldiered on...

“Elizabeth, may you take Thomas’s right hand in your own, and repeat after me these same words, that will solidify the union between you.” He spoke eloquently.

It suddenly seemed mad, but wonderful, to Libby, that all she need do was murmur a few words from A Prayer Book, and then she would be bound to him forever. It was silly. But by the same measure, it was also _glorious_.

“I, Elizabeth., take thee, Thomas..”

“I, Elizabeth., _happily,_ take thee, Thomas..”

She beamed. If he could alter his vows, so could she, she decided. She saw the Reverend smile because of this.

“…To be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, or for poorer…” Reverend Granger proceeded slowly.

“…To be _my_ wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, or for worse, for richer, or for poorer…” She spoke with a growing smile.

“I take him in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I give thee my faith.” He finally finished.

“I do take him in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I give thee my faith.” She smiled, an elated tears dripping down gently from her eyes.

Thomas’s lips burst into such a wide grin on seeing her weep joyfully to their vows. He wanted to crush her close and kiss them away, and would have done if they weren’t in front of their beloved friends and family.

They then both pledged their troth to one another after Reverend Granger.

“With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” The both of them clutching so hard onto each other’s hands with love, Benedict feared he was going to need a tool t separate them. And he dared defy anyone who would even attempt trying. Because they would have a Furious Mrs Sharpe, and enraged Professor Richard Farrow, A pesky little cheeky young Farrow, him, an experienced soldier, and the stubborn feistiness of Violet Burchrowe to answer too. There would be no coming between Elizabeth and Thomas Kenworthy for all of the British Isles for anyone of mortal being.

“Elizabeth and Thomas, through their words, here today, have joined together in holy wedlock. Because they have exchanged their vows before God and these witnesses, have pledged their commitment each to the other, and have declared the same by joining hands and by exchanging rings, Those whom God hath joined together, let no one put asunder.”

Reverend Granger finalized.

Mrs Sharpe wept anew into her handkerchief. Felicity and Nessie too, Richard remarked, wiped away a happy tear from the corner of their eyes.

As Nessie did it, she let out a highly wimpy sniffle, turning to see that Sir Richard was glowering a smile at her.

“I ‘ad somethin’ in me eye’ didn’t I…”

She tried to wave off. Her voice wobbly with emotion.

He chuckled lightly. He always thought their Ladies maid to be so stern of character, but he had caught her red handed weeping as she watched her friend get married.

“Yes, Miss Ballard. I do believe it was a tear…And here I thought you so immovable” He offered kindly.

He watched as her lip wobbled with renewed vigour.

“Oh, I don’t care anymore. Look at her, she’s so bloody ‘appy…I’m not made of metal, ya know, Sir…”

She burst out, full on sobbing in happiness. Their attention switched back to the front of the altar, where something magical was just unfolding. Well, to Thomas and Elizabeth anyway.

“It gives me great pleasure to now pronounce, that they are, indeed, husband and wife.” He smiled. Watching, heartened, as Thomas’s eyes watered with joy as he looked down to his Bride.

“Thomas. You may now kiss your bride...”

Reverend Granger smiled, shutting the book of common Anglican prayer in his hands.

It would take a deaf person not to hear how Thomas’s smile refreshed anew with wide vitality. And he stepped forward to whisk Elizabeth’s lace veil back from her face. And spoke with such loud tones that everyone in the Church heard him say;

“ _Finally_...” He rasped.

Before his hands pulled her close, eyes flitting from her lips, up to hers, one hand placed to her throat, and the other to her waist, as he kissed her so hard, even the stoic likes of Lady Mannering blushed at the sight. His lips molded hard onto her own, taking her breath away and causing another happy to tear to follow the path that a couple had taken before it, but which Thomas brushed away with the pad of his thumb, as he kissed her just long enough to be considered a decent gentleman. Pulling back to burst into a smile that was bred with half a rumble of breathy laughter as he looked to his wife.

To his Mrs Elizabeth Kenworthy. And she was looking back at him as if he were the only man she had ever seen, because, in a way, he was. And how she adored him _. Her Husband_. People stood and applauded, uncaring if it was rude. A sight such as this deserved it.

“I love you, Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy...” He grinned to her.

“I should hope so, Sir Thomas Kenworthy. Because I don’t walk up the aisle to wed just anyone..” She beamed.

He chuckled at that.

“Pray, you are never going to be a boring wife, are you?”

He asked with sly hope. Winking at her.

“I shall endeavour to be as _wild_ as I can possibly manage.” She promised.

“Please do, Mrs Kenworthy.”

He smiled. Loving that her surname was now his. That made him all the more happy inside.

Elizabeth let her husband take her arm, as the wedding bells tolled, birds sang, and people simpered and smiled gladly at them as they began their walk out of the church as Mr. and Mrs, forevermore. Behind them, their family and friends amassed, some weeping joy, some smirking like there was no happier sight to bestow upon their eyes.

The real surprise of the day though, came when Sir Benedict came to escort Violet out of the church, holding his arm, and watching with a wobbly lip as his Best Friend walked ahead of him, making visual love to his Bride through his jovial and delighted eyes. As if she were the prettiest creature he had ever known.

Violet leaned up to see a familiar gleam in his eyes.

“Pray, Sir Carlton, _are you crying?_ ” She asked with searching humour.

“No. It was rather uncommonly dusty over the Grooms side, and I-…”

He began in dismissal, but then he looked down and saw her smile a lovely yet wicked leer up to him. Through those pretty hazel eyes.

“Oh. _Bugger it. YES. Alright. YES_ , I’m crying…” He snapped moodily, ebbing another tear away. Sniffling in a truly pathetic manner.

She discreetly held out her lace hankie for him. Which he took, quickly dabbing at his eyes in a way he hoped no one noticed.

Violet giggled, rolling her eyes as they got to the church door, to see their Friends take to a white horse drawn carriage on the way to the wedding breakfast.

“Men These days...” She grinned, shaking her head.

“Forget being the end result of nearly four billion years of evolutionary success, one glance at a wedded pair and you burst into the sniffles... Really, Sir. I had the gall to think better of you, than being the average weepy wimp...” She japed.

Benedict glared stroppily at her, like a sulking two year old.

 

 

~

 


	35. Parting's, Coach Rides, and Dusty Ducks...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> little sad, but a little bit of fluffy/smuttiness to come soon...

 

 

 

After the wedding breakfast had come and gone, Elizabeth found herself giddily awaiting yet also dreading what lay after it. She had been packing up her things about the house for days, in readiness to move to Derbyshire. But the now the time was here to leave, she felt nervousness and sorrow grip her gut. She loved her dear husband more than anything in the world, (considering she’d only been married to him for the best part of an hour) really she did, but now she had to go away from the home she’d grown up in, and the much loved family who’d helped her nurture into womanhood, and flourish into the Lady whom she now was. She loved her family all so dearly, it was grievous thinking that she now had to leave them all behind in want of starting a new life, the magnificent man stood loyally – and handsomely - by her side.

The newly wedded Mr and Mrs Kenworthy strode out of 34 Montague Street, arm in arm, down the front steps and out to the side of the Duke’s waiting carriage, that Elizabeth remarked would carry them off into the sunset to start their new life together, like the mushy endings to penny novelettes, she had thought. In tow behind them, stood Nessie on the doorstep, whom Libby had already hugged and wept her goodbyes too. Saying that as soon as she got a break in work, she must write to Elizabeth, and come to Derbyshire for her holidays should she be able to afford the fare on the coach up (and if she could not, Araminta insisted she would lay some money at Nessie’s door to assist her in such a thing) She had also laid heavy well wishes and partings upon Mrs Briggs, the stout greying housekeeper, Hawkins, the ever astute Butler, and the no nonsense bravado of Mrs Bartley, their plump cook. All of whom crowded the hallway inside the house to see the Eldest Farrow, now Kenworthy, start upon her new life as a wedded woman. Though they all knew it wasn’t goodbye forever, for she was bound to visit London after the Honeymoon, and her settling at Chatsworth Hall, though they knew they’d be seeing her again, grief of losing the lovely woman ran deep.

Sir Richard, Mrs Sharpe and Felicity followed the two newlyweds out onto the empty pavement, as the footmen, Willard and Hastings, attended to the luggage trunks to the back of the carriage. And Ramsey, the driver, ensured that the horses were all happy. Already remarking their new Duchess to be a most amiable woman, as kind as she was pretty, for she had been caught red handed slipping each of the four horse’s a sugar cube. Mrs Sharpe, of course, had her – overused – and soggy hankie to hand as she came behind her eldest. Still weeping, as she had not stopped doing so since Thomas and Elizabeth had stood up and said, ‘I will’, Felicity too looked rather saddened at her sister’s imminent departure. And Sir Richard gazed over his eldest with unshed tears littering his wizened blue eyes. And as such, he was the first person to step forwards and clasp Elizabeth’s hands in his own, leaning down to place an eager and the most sentimental kiss upon them. He would have to grow accustomed to the weight of the two wedding bands upon her finger, as, he imagines, would she.

“Well. My dear.” He began. “Let us not treat this as the last farewell, indeed not. Merely a separation for the time being. Though your leaving does cause me grief, I admit, you will have a fine new, and I daresay very merry life to embark on. So do not enter it saddened about leaving your poor aged father to contend with the two sillier of your relatives…” He winked, in true Farrow jesting manner.

Mrs Sharpe wafted at his shoulder with her hankie, after he finished hugging his eldest close for a second.

“He is a good man, my dear, you shall be a most contended woman in near every sense.” He whispered out of earshot of anyone else.

“And how well I know if it.” She whispered back, she was going to miss the guiding pillar of sense and dry wit that was her father. The wise old professor who always had a kind smile, and a pair of ears to await hearing of her troubles, she would miss the warmth of his little sentimental embraces, and the ways in which his clothes always held a heavy fragrance of mint leaves, and musty old books.

She pulled back, to find that Richard now addressed the man behind her.

“Sir Thomas. You be sure to take care of this one. For she is our entire world.”

Richard spoke gravely, looking lovingly at the splendor of a woman whom his older daughter had become.

“I give you my most solemn vow on the matter, Sir.”

Thomas promised, and Richard knew he meant it as such, Thomas shook hands with his now Father-in-law. Who smiled widely back at one another in understanding. Thomas truly was thankful for the man, for had he not tried his hand at match making, then maybe, he never would have found his life’s happiness, and that thought rocked his very world to its core.

It then came upon Mrs Sharpe’s turn to step forwards and clasp her into a hug that was squeezing and tight, as if she never wanted to let go of the woman. Sobs erupting from her lips as she felt the weight of her lovely stepdaughter in her arms for the last time in a long while. When Elizabeth pulled back – lest she have her lungs squeezed right out of her – She saw Mrs Sharpe kept a firm grip upon her shoulders as she sniffled through her words.

“My darling, we shall miss you something _dreadfully awful_ …” She wept. Stemming the fat tears that burst from her warm butterscotch eyes.

“And I you, Mrs Sharpe. Whatever will I do without your direction? For I confess I shall have no idea. Except that I may sit with my legs planted in whatever direction I so chose as Duchess...” She japed. Referring to the first time when Thomas had come to call upon her, and Mrs Sharpe had remarked her legs looked unseemly no matter what position she sat in.

“Oh, you are your father’s daughter, well enough, Miss Elizabeth...” She shook her head, though her comment was meant to be barbed, she still smiled.

“I shall miss you wickedly, Mrs Sharpe. In all seriousness.” She finally relented. No humor lurking in her eyes now.

“You must write me often dear, and if you cannot write, then visit, and if you cannot visit, then prepare the finest guest room that Chatsworth has for me...” Araminta poked fun, winking at Sir Thomas, who laughed because of it.

“You shall have it reserved unconditionally in preparation for your visit, Mrs Sharpe.”

Thomas insisted. As he came forwards and placed a kiss upon his Mother-in-laws hand. Araminta tilted her head, before she too, clasped Thomas in a loving hug, pulling back to touch her hand to the side of his smiling cheek. The man looked heartened by the gesture.

“I wish you every happiness, with her, your Lordship, you are the most handsome son I law in all of the British Isles, and pray, please do not beat about the bush when it comes to delivering us a few Grandchildren at some point soon.”

She winked, to Elizabeth, who flushed obviously with such pale skin, rolling her eyes.

Thomas nodded, inclining his head in a deep smooth nod, smile growing wider as he did. Before Mrs Sharpe patted his cheek and moved away, allowing their youngest to come through the crowds and run felt pelt into her sister’s middle, wrapping her skinny little arms about her sister, and hugging her close. Breathing in that staple Elizabeth scent that she would now always associate with her sister. A warm, clean scent of honey and floral fragrance. She would miss it when she was gone, she would miss it so _very terribly._

“Goodbye Felic. I’ll miss dreadfully how effortlessly you wind me up with your pesky ways...” Elizabeth smiled as she leaned down to wrap her arms about her younger sibling.

“I love you, Elizabeth...”

Felicity mumbled into her sister’s tummy, voice ever so muffled by the silk sash of her Wedding gown which she still donned – though it was usual for a Bride to change before she traveled, Mrs Sharpe had been insistent that this was bad luck for a newly wedded couple. All that the Farrow’s heard gathered about them both was Felicity mumble a funny sounding _“Iiirroovvvoooouuerrrriiidebbiddeeeff.”_ Into her torso. Though she never said it often, she deemed today a worthy occasion of such a powerful declaration.

Elizabeth smiled looking down at the young Farrow, as did Thomas. Though Felicity never said it often, she deemed today a worthy occasion of such a powerful declaration. Elizabeth placed a singular kiss to the top of Felicity’s head.

“And I love you too, Fel.” She mumbled back gently.

When she pulled back, her cheeky copper eyes looking up to her sister in sadness, Elizabeth caught a stray tear with her thumb as it tracked down over felicity’s freckled pale little cheek. As she beamed down at the littlest Farrow pest.

“None of that now, pest. You are the eligible lady of this household now. You must do it proud when you are out in society in but a short few months...” Elizabeth insisted.

“Okay…” Felicity snivelled. Putting on a brave face.

“Oh, and can I have your old bedchamber? It’s far bigger than mine, and you shall not be needing it now after all…”

She asked with a little grin, not able to hold her tongue back from being as mischievous as she ever was. Richard rolled his eyes to this, but with a smile, and Mrs Sharpe sighed. _Ever the pest,_ she thought.

Libby’s answer was a happy glower at the little vexation.

Elizabeth let a now beaming Felicity simper away out of her arms as she sighed in happy frustration, happy to believe that Felicity would never change her ways, before she watched as her Husband crouched down onto one knee in front of her younger sister. Whom beamed wide at him, before he opened his arms wide enough just in time for her to throw her arms about his neck, and hug onto him so tightly, that Elizabeth winced on hearing the very breath crushed out of her significant other’s lungs by her sister’s griping hold.

“I take it that we will be seeing you soon for your holiday’s, pest?” Thomas asked with a sloping smile and a friendly wink.

“Yes-“ Felicity grinned widely and keenly, before the sound of Mrs Sharpe clearing her throat behind the pest made her turn, and a withering glare led her to a change of words.

“I-I m-mean, if that is, it would be of a convenient time upon you and Elizabeth...” She improvised. Fiddling with her skirts as she remembered how to ask politely.

“I am sure we would accept your company at even a moment’s notice, Miss Farrow. I thank you most heartily for asking in such a well-bred and such a graciously inadvertent manner.” He jested to the little pest in front of him.

“I will miss you too, Thomas. You are the kindest big brother the world has ever seen.” She complimented.

“And you, dear Fel, the finest pest that the planet has the pleasure to boast of.” He smiled back.

“Promise that you’ll take care of my Sister...” She whispered into his ear, placing a kiss upon the side of his sharp pale cheekbone.

“I promise that I will endeavour to, to the very best of my abilities.” He mumbled back.

“Deal?” He asked, holding out his right hand.

She shook it. “We have an accord.” She grinned formally.

“Farewell Bug.” He smiled as he straightened, coming to his wife who stood proud and smiling by his towering side.

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears as she looked across her family, and behind them, to her old home, with all the staff gathered about the hall, waving across to her. She smiled, taking in the sight of it all. Inwardly and silently waving goodbye to 34 Montague Street. Thomas noticed this, and the fact her eyes looked a little moist and filled with morose and nostalgia. He reached over and covered her hand with his hand, holding it tight.

“On the way with you now. It will be dark in a few hours, and then you shall be set upon by robbers and thieves and highwaymen and lord only knows what else, and my poor nerves need no further hassle from such trials. You know my nerves need a gentle disposition to keep my spasms at bay.”

Mrs Sharpe began to rattle off, watching as Elizabeth smiled, rolling her eyes, before Hastings was by their side, opening the carriage door for them, Thomas helping his wife climb in, assisting her in ensuring her trail of a wedding train didn’t impede her or trip her up. The carriage barely titled as she shuffled her body inside, and slid across the bench to the far side, allowing Thomas room to get in behind her. Which he did, after nodding a gentle ‘goodbye’ to his in-laws, and his cheeky ward of a sister-in-law. Before he too climbed into the well sprung carriage, baring the Kenworthy family crest. Or, as Elizabeth should say, she supposed, _her,_ family crest now. Hastings shut the door behind them, and Elizabeth watched with a heavy heart as her family turned, Sir Richard taking Araminta’s hand. Felicity trailing after them both as they headed back up the steps, before turning to watch the carriage depart from the doorstep.

Thomas settled next to her, watching as Elizabeth was unable to help one saddened tear drop from her eye, as the carriage lurched into motion. Spiriting them away to Derbyshire to begin her new life. Thomas listened to her sigh, smiling as she wiped away the tear that leaked down her cheek. She smiled so wide when Thomas’s eyes met her own, she was reminded how potently she adored this man, and suddenly, her new life seemed a little less daunting.

He smiled his most comforting smile across to her. Softly rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand, watching her smile grow in all its bare loveliness as he spoke gentle words to his wife.

“I would have to be a complete cad if I did not recognize that you have had to make numerous strange new adjustments for our union, Elizabeth…”

He spoke softly, his eyes were so achingly kind as they stared at her just then, that she felt she nearly wanted to drown in their depths.

“You’re not a cad, my dear.”

She offered back sincerely. Cupping the side of her hand to his cheek.

“Oh, how you do flatter me, _wife…_ ” He grinned wolfishly.

“And may I just say, I know I have asked much of you in leaving your wonderful family to come and live at Chatsworth Hall with me, but, I really am serious about allowing you to visit them anytime, if you ever wish to, even if it is at a seconds notice. Or even if it means inviting them up to Derbyshire. I would do anything to secure your happiness, darling, should you begin to feel even the least bit homesick…” He offered.

“Careful, my dear, I may have to flatter you again for such errant kindness.”

She warned with a huge smile. Watching as his eyes burned hot and loving across to her, as they swayed through a bump in the road, which forced the sides of their thighs to press into each other.

Elizabeth swore now, she felt incredibly daunted, and very feminine, by the look of lust she found then in her husband’s eyes, and the fact he was so close, and how handsome he suddenly seemed to become. Her breath deserted her, and she was left desperately trying to claw some back into her lungs where it belonged.

“You know there won’t be a day in our lives to come when I shan’t welcome such sweet praises from my dear beloved...”

He smiled, leaning close, pressing a long kiss to the peachy sweet skin below her pale ear, making her skin flush at the temperature of his breath. Her eyes fluttered blissfully at the sensations which blossomed through her in a burst of heat. She opened her mouth to speak, opening her blue eyes and turning to face towards him, suddenly the knowledge that she was all his now, thrilled her right down to her very bones. Why, she had no idea, but she knew she would welcome anything he sat fit to unleash upon her in the throes of passion. And she knew that was wicked, but she had a sinful preconception that he would assure her desire was kept very well attended too.

He knew he had made her speechless now, but even so, he could not resist shuffling ever so slightly closer, and pressing another kiss to her jaw, moving ever closer to her lips as he kissed his way all across her pale cheeks, his right hand sliding her closer, hooking to the back of her waist. His hand gliding gently over the silk of the ribbon about her waist. Before his brain reminds him that there was _one more_ night to go. _One_ more night to go until he could lock his bedroom door to the world for a week, and just _have_ her. In all the ways he had been dreaming of for absolute weeks.

“May I also point out, Elizabeth that if you do want to come to London to visit your relatives, should I not be able to accompany you to town, I would want you back at Chatsworth by the end of that very same week. Or I will come to London and I will _drag_ you back to Derbyshire...” He rasped into her ear.

“W-why is that?”

She stammered breathily. Unknowingly. Which he smirked lustily at, _she was so innocent it made him want her all that more madly…_

“Because a week without you means I will be hauling you back into our marriage bed to keep you thoroughly preoccupied there all the live long day…maybe two days…” He promised flirtily.

Elizabeth bit her lip in a nervous smile as he cheeks went such a furious shade of red, she was sure it nearly matched her hair. But still she found herself asking

“Can a lot be done in two days?” She whispered before his lips crushed to hers.

“Just you wait and see, Mrs Kenworthy…” Was his reply before his mouth sealed across her own, silencing her with such passion it should have been forbidden.

 

~

 

Their carriage ride was of some duration, and during such a long time spanning nearly six hours, Thomas had kissed, squeezed and hugged his new wife so close, so many times, they both were nearly overcome with lust. (Both their minds silently pointing out that a moving carriage was no place for conducting a consummation of their marriage) so they had engaged in lively conversation, they had laughed, toyed, Elizabeth had enquired into Chatsworth, and Thomas’s relatives. By the time the Kenworthy coach drew up off a small side track into a noisy gravel path, the steady change in rhythm of the horses hooves slowing down, turns out to be the thing that jolts Elizabeth from slumber which she did not realize she had drifted into, curling onto her husband’s shoulder. Last thing she remembers, they were talking passionately about their childhoods spent in the country, and she could not pinpoint the moment she had slipped away to sleep. It had been a long day, after all, and travelling six hours in a coach was very tiring. Thomas had delighted in watching her rest against his shoulder, he had gently laid his overcoat across her so that she would not catch a chill as she slept. Placing a loving kiss to her forehead, which made her eyes and lips twitch at the corner with a very slight smile.

But as she is awakened, her head snaps up to take in the sight out of the window as she rubs below her eyes, as they grew accustomed to the dimming daylight, and the ever handsome face of her husband, who smiled at her.

“Surely we are not in Derbyshire already?” She asks with a sleepy rasp of a voice that fires his blood, in some odd enigmatic way.

“Astute, my dear. We are not close to Derbyshire yet. We are now in Northampton, not half an hour from Brixworth, I believe…”

He offered, used to the route as he had travelled it so many numerous times.

“I did not realize I had fallen asleep, forgive me...” She mumbled as she tried to shake herself awake, clearing her throat.

He chuckled gently, untangling a misbehaving strand of curly red hair away from off her forehead. She must have mussed her intricate up do when she slumped onto his shoulder.

“Nothing to apologize for, wife. It has been a rather long day. _A wonderful day,_ nonetheless, but still long.”

He assured her, showing he really didn’t mind her sleeping, she looked angelic when she slept; it was a lovely sight to see.

Elizabeth watched out of the window, as the carriage rounded a bend, and brought into her sights, the most sweet little country manor she had ever seen.

It was a dainty country inn, which could not have housed more than thirty rooms given its humble yet large size. It was grey brick, adorned with vines, wisteria and roses clung to the brick, creeping up the walls like an intruder seeking access. It was the most attractive roadside Inn she had ever set her eyes upon. The windows shone like amber shards of jewels as the evening sun cast ochre flames the grass, and the gardens which were teeming with wild flowers. It looked serene and utterly tranquil. The roof is low and slanted to one side and is covered with rounded roof tiles with a few attic windows. Two small chimneys sit at either side of the house. Many smaller windows let in plenty of light to the rooms below the roof. The house itself is surrounded by a gorgeous garden, including various trees, bushes, flowers and a large bottle green pond. Thomas could see from the smile on her face that she adored the place already. Her eyes having found the festively painted sign that hung above the vine strangle door, a glimmer of sunlight caught her eye, as a person from within opened a small Tudor crossed window, catching a shaft of the setting sun to wink across to her. As they drew ever closer, her eyes read the name, emblazoned in calligraphic gold front upon the door sign, which swayed in the gentle spring breeze of the air, it read; _The Dusty Duck, Coaching Inn_

“The Dusty Duck...” She gasped in humoured adoration.

Elizabeth smiled at its loveliness. Turning to her husband beside her.

“I’m glad you like it.”

He assessed with a nod and the tip of a smile, just able to tell from the look in her eyes and the smile on her lips that already she approved. Which warmed him right through. They had only been married for seven hours, and already he could read her every expression like as easily as he could a book.

“We shall be situated here for the night. I would not subject you to the arduous journey of a solid fourteen and a half hours in a coach.” He smiled kindly. “I often frequent this Inn, The owners are a very charming married couple, Mr. and Mrs Hopperton, I took the liberty of writing ahead to request rooms so as to break up our journey. The rooms here are very reasonable, and Mrs Hopperton does cook the finest roast dinners this side of Kettering.” Thomas awarded, as he watched the coach slowly judder to a creaky stop, he himself launching out and onto the gravelled drive, leaning in to help assist his wife out of the Carriage. He didn’t even have to instruct Willard and Ramsey to fetch their trunks, Elizabeth watched as they seamlessly glided about, carrying luggage and trunks to the front, where two obliging and polite boys helped lug them effortlessly inside.

Elizabeth grabbed her train, and eased herself down from the coach. But as he skirts were so cumbersome, she wasn’t able to stop her foot from getting caught upon a small snag of fabric that made her foot slip.

“I-OhhH-..”

She exclaimed, as she had been abut to remark upon the splendour of the gardens, yet, her words were torn away from her mouth.

Thomas moved as quick as a cat as he before he could watch her tumble ungracefully, unbalanced, her stomach lurched up into her heart, as she tripped straight into the arms of her husband, who moved to quickly break her fall before she took a tumble, and injured herself. She did reach out a hand to steady herself, but found she needn’t as she suddenly found her top half pressed into her husband’s hard chest. He didn’t even seem to register that his hands had come about her waist, and hers, about his shoulders, one grasping to the side of his neck, severely mussing his – _wonky_ – tied wedding cravat. Just what Thomas _didn’t need_ , was a reminder how elegantly shapely his wife was, he could feel every curve of hers, mold to the front of his body, from the very outline of her bosom, to the delicate press of her rounded hips, and the delicious swell of her thighs. And she swallowed, unable to do anything but gaze deep into the hypnotizing blue discs of his eyes with her mouth gaped wide as she could feel his chest raggedly pound with breath, and his strong and so very lengthy thighs and powerful hips press deep into her. His body was all hard slabs of muscle, and lean power that the thought of such, made her cheeks pinken. Their eyes met, as if for the first time, a strange, hot, sweeping sensation rushed through the both of them. Had he stared into her eyes for a second longer, he would have kissed her until they both couldn’t see straight for the lust that clouded their thoughts. He suddenly had a most wicked vision to contend with, which his mind strobed at him, yet another thing which he did not need. Something which did not assist him one jot. But he could just picture the both of them, pressed like this, except his lips would be hungrily kissing her own, and he would be stalking her backwards into one of the comfortable beds that the Inn offered, and his hands would be so terribly busied, sinking into her thick red hair, and tearing the wedding dress down off of her shoulders as they both moaned in need against each other’s lips. Not caring if he ripped the dress, he just needed her naked, and that was all he knew.

As It was, he was just contemplating sating this wish, when a male voice booms his name kindly across the drive from the doorway. And he blinks, turning his head, still clasping his wife to his chest.

“ _AH._ Sir Thomas, I see you made good time, Sir, very good time _indeed_...”

Came the great rumble of an aged male voice calling across to the pair of them; As it was, Elizabeth had trouble of dislodging her eyes from the glorious grace of her husband’s lips. His hot breath scorching across to her cheek.

But when she did turn away, she did so to see the huge form of a more than plump lumbering man move with quick intent across to the both of them. Elizabeth watched as the genial man came to her husband as he set her down, letting her slide away in a manner that left him aching, off balance and perfectly out of sorts. Thomas turned to face Mr Hopperton. The man had a ring of fast disappearing muddy brown hair about his tubby head, and cheeks that were reddened by his rushing about, obviously as the Innkeeper. But his face was kind, and Elizabeth could see he was only aged by his smile. Which weathered his dark russet coloured eyes and his stout cheeks. His smile was welcoming and hospitable, he had large tubby arms and an even flabbier stomach, but he moved about as if he weighed absolutely nothing at all. Elizabeth wagered he had a genteel character, belonging to some old fading age of cordiality, he had on a red waistcoat, stretched wide over a weathered white cotton shirt that had seen better days, and she noticed that the golden buttons straining in their hold over his large stomach, on his legs he wore bottle green breeches that accommodated his wide legs, with very much worn brown leather boots to his feet, and a stained apron knotted about his waist. Elizabeth could almost imagine this man having grown used to the routine of ambling about the inn with quick practiced ease.

Thomas smiled as the man came across the drive, to personally greet the Duke. Her husband grinned as Thomas welcomed the man’s flabby beefy fingers to grasp his own in a sentimental handshake that told her they were no strangers to each other. The stout man laying his hand atop Thomas’s as he grinned wide in delight.

“Well. The roads up these parts are a lot less busy than London. As always…” Thomas smiled kindly. “It was a most pleasant journey to undertake...” He added.

The smiling Innkeeper tilted his head knowingly.

“I expect Sir _, that_ , was due to the company you kept in that carriage, rather than the state of the roads…” And Elizabeth flushed.

“May I wish you the utmost joy, Sir. Though I think you may not need it with such a beautiful lady upon your arm.” He flattered.

Thomas smiled genially. “Allow me to introduce you. Mr Hopperton, this is my wife, Lady Elizabeth Kenworthy, the newly wedded Duchess of Chatsworth...” Thomas winked to her, seeing that she smiled wider because of such.

“..Elizabeth, this is Mr Theodore Hopperton, Esteemed landlord of the Dusty Duck.” Thomas offered.

Mr Hopperton bowed as he took Elizabeth’s dainty hand, smiling at her in the kindest manner.

“It is my pleasure to meet you. Your Ladyship. Your husband had become one of our most frequent and cherished guests over these many years.” He awarded.

“I am not surprised. Your Inn is the loveliest coaching Inn I have ever had the pleasure of frequenting…” She smiled. “And I pray it does not live up to its name in _absolute alacrity_...” She beamed.

Mr Hopperton let out a deep booming laugh that shook the air around them, Thomas let a half smile cross his lips at her wit.

“Pray your Ladyship, that is golden wit you are armed with. Allow me to assure you that we do our level best to keep the rooms and the place spotless, and always ensure the ducks stay _outside..._ ” He spoke back to her joke.

"...I trust there are also adequate rooms provided for my footmen and driver. They too have had a long journey, and I would wish for them to be comfortable here also." Thomas enquired.

"Aye, Sir. We have them provided for too. They each have a small single all to their own, fires lit in each, aswell as Mrs Hopperton's famed meat pies and mash to curb their hunger, and as much locally brewed ale as they desire, Mi'lord. I wager they'll be happy as pigs in mud, they will." Mr Hopperton grinned.

At this point, Ramsey and Willard sidled past with a joint "Oh, aye." of such eagerness in unison, that it made Thomas, Elizabeth and the Innkeeper all laugh. Hasting's joined his colleagues, not after slapping Thomas on the shoulder, and declaring a "Bless you, sweet master.." To the Duke.

Elizabeth knew right then, that when they arrived back at Chatsworth tomorrow, she would not come across one servant who'd ever had a cross word from him in their lives. He obviously bred loyalty and good natured amiability from all his staff. She knew then that he probably also gave them days off each week, and extra allowances at Christmas. Servants in the House of Kenworthy were, she thought, allowed to attend Church on Sundays, allowed bowls of punch every now and the, and had such comfortable, warm and pleasant quarters to live in, that they would declare he was too kind to be true. Thomas treated his staff like friends, and not slaves, like most other men his position would, He did not bark, or order them about. He spoke in reverent tones, and never approached them with requests that were below pure politesse. Libby knew her Husband was good and kind, through and through. It was engrained to his very bones.

Hopperton smiled.

"I know no other who treats his staff like a family.." The landlord shook his head in amazement, hands on his wide chubby hips.

"They serve me, and attend to me, the least I can do is to ensure they are kept well. Respect after all, does cut both ways." He assured.

Hopperton smiled his wide smile once more. Before he seemed to lurch into action.

“Now, make haste come in, come in the both of you. We can’t have a newly wedded Duke and Duchess standing out on a gravel drive all night!”

He spoke in obvious distaste of such a notion, waving the both of them inside, as Thomas took his wife’s arm and walked alongside her, through the short little low doorway that Mr Hopperton amazingly managed to squeeze through. They passed through a heavenly warm oak interior, past a little dark, laden with a vase of fresh wild flowers, with keys strung up to the wall behind the carved oak desk. And they eagerly kept pace with the quick speed of the landlord as he led them up a delightfully rickety staircase, along a carpeted corridor, with striped wallpapered walls, strung with framed pictures of cows, landscapes of meadows, and interesting flora and fauna.

He then led then both to a doorway at the far end of the hall, speaking all the while he bustled along the narrow passage.

“These are our finest chambers, very suited to a newly wedded couple I grant you. There is a small antechamber of a dressing room for each of you, both with separate powdering facilities. You’d be surprised how often married couples come through here, with no want for seeing one another…” Hopperton remarked dryly with a brassy and deep chuckle.

“I don’t think we shall share in that problem...”

Thomas answered, his hand slyly skimming his wife’s slender waist. She turned and caught him shooting her a hot cunning wink.

Elizabeth flushed again as Mr Hopperton’s chuckle boomed through the silence as they came to the door, the wood whining as his flabby fingers pushed the door so it swung open. When the sight of the room met her eyes, Elizabeth knew it would suit them very well, indeed.

It was decorated with shades of beige and gold, with a dark pine four poster bed, with a canopy, and also layered with a thick mattress and numerous quilts and blankets to match in with the nude and taupe shades of the room. The walls were laden with a countryside depicted wallpaper in a mushroom brown, standing out to the wall on the far side, was a white stone fireplace, of which a crackling fire blazed within, to keep the cool of the night at bay. There wasn’t overmuch decoration, but a chest of drawers pressed to the wall where they stood by the door, the same dark pine as to match the bed, and one armchair huddled into the alcove of the crossed medieval Tudor windows, lined with heavy net curtains parted either side, with thick fawn coloured crushed curtains hung elegantly to complete the room as being luxuriously adequate for the country gentry likes of a Duke and a Duchess. Elizabeth smiled at the fact that sprigs of yellow Irises, and Spanish jasmine were tied with blue ribbon, to symbolise that _'their love would be true'_ which laid on the pillows of the bed. She smiled as it was well known fact that the Iris, symbolized passion, and the jasmine, sensuality. With two stalks of lavender for Love and Devotion.

“There is an adjoining bedchamber Mi’Lord, should you require it…”

Hopperton insisted, crossing the room to show them another room. With an inherently more masculine feel to it, it had deep blood red colour infused to the bed throw, and the canopy’s of the four poster bed, the furnishings in this room where just as sparse on the ground, but the wallpaper was a crimson and donkey brown stripe. And the fireplace was more intricately carved out of black marble. Definitely intended to be man, and wife bedrooms, joined by a connecting door.

“We didn’t set a fire in this one, Mi’lord, we were unsure if you needed both the rooms. There was no exact specification as to your letter, Sir, as when you wrote to reserve them whether you’d be inclined as to using the both of them…”

Hopperton offered. His tone reaching into depths of worry, as it was plain as day that he had clearly had couples here before who were displeased with the fine rooms, the lovely surroundings, and the kind genteel proprietor. Elizabeth became a little aggrieved to think anyone could find fault with the rooms, and voice their rude displeasure to the owner, who had gone out of his way to be so obliging, and gone to large extents to please them.

Thomas relaxed the man with an easy smile, pressing a hand to Hopperton’s shoulder. Easing his worry with a smile that made Elizabeth gaze longingly at his lips.

“This room is perfect. Thank you Hopperton. We shan’t be requiring the both. I should have made that clearer in my communication …” Thomas noted to himself for future reference.

Elizabeth’s body lurched

Hopperton’s eyes blew wide at thinking he had the effrontery to commend the Duke.

“Begging your pardon sir, I didn’t mean... What I meant was, that it was no trouble...” He offered, becoming flustered.

“Pray, Hopperton, do not overexert yourself to uneasiness. The rooms are fine as they are, and we are most thoroughly pleased. Are we not, my dear?” Thomas asked his wife.

“Infinitely so, Mr Hopperton. The view is glorious, this Inn is so perfectly situated. I shouldn’t wish to change a thing.” Elizabeth remarked with a kind smile, laying her soft hand upon Mr Hopperton to soothe him.

“I am very glad that it meet’s your fulfilment, My Lady...” He smiled.

“Oh, and before I forget, Dinner tonight is Mrs Hopperton’s wonderful French onion soup to start, followed by her famed Yorkshires and roast beef, with all the trimmings, plus a course of cheese to follow, and then a choice of Apple Cobbler, or Peach tart…” He offered, making both the newlyweds stomachs gurgle in wanting, and their appetites well and truly wetted. “Should you be wishing to dine privately, Sir?” Hopperton enquired.

“Yes. I believe we shall.” Thomas smiled.

“Very good, Mi’lord, I shall leave you to one another now. We’ll have your trunks and luggage fetched up right away, Sir, for it looks like rain or a storm brewing, and I shouldn’t wish for to send a Duke and Duchess home with a trunk of soggy clothing.” Hopperton grinned.

“No indeed. Thank you Hopperton, we are most sincerely obliged.” Thomas smiled, before the man slid away. “Dinner will be served at your earliest convenience, Sir. I shall have it sent up for you.” He awarded the both of them, nodding as he ducked out of the room, shutting the door.

Thomas inclined his head in a salute back to him. Watching as his wife, clutching her wedding skirts, sidled over to the window, and better took in the sight of the blossoming garden which spring had woven its way into. In the yellow of the wild daisies, the bluebells, the pink foxgloves and the purple lavender hedges that lined the hedgerows by the pond.

“It is quite loveliest sight I’ve ever seen…” Elizabeth complimented.

“I agree…”

Thomas smiled, tilting his head as he looked at the side of her face, watching her profile as she took pleasure in such a simple thing as admiring the brilliance of the well-kept gardens.

Elizabeth turned to look at her husband, not realizing the coil of curled red hair that tracked down the back of her neck made her look utterly enchanting to his eyes. She smiled back to him.

“You’re not even looking out of the window, dear...” She pointed out, smiling prettily.

“We were talking about the view?”

He smiled wolfishly. Tilting his head, she blushed despite herself, to such a praise as that.

 

~

 

 

 

 


	36. Wedding Nights, A Bride's Trousseau, and A Groom's Good Word...

 

 

 ~ Thomas having to do this for his wife ~

(Thomas's face upon discovering what Elizabeth is wearing to bed...)

 

~ Elizabeth's Nightgown ~

which would therefore lead to the above....

and this not long after....

 

 

 

The evening crept upon them with all the sow advancing sluggish-nesh of a cool spring night. It seemed to shift ever so slowly, the light gradually bleeding out of the sky, until darkness claimed the light around it very gently. Softly lifting the day away on swift wings. Almost as if it plucked it from the sky entirely, and it had gone without fuss, and a thundering rainstorm had taken its place. Bashing against the windows with buffeting wind, the rain knifing at the glass to try and get in through the glass.

Elizabeth did question as to why the innkeeper had lit the fire to keep them warm, when it was not that cold outside. But as soon as darkness had dawned, she saw why. The room kept the warmth of the fires heat rather well, but even she knew that the bare and creaking floorboards of the room would not sustain it for long. True to Hopperton’s word, the kind landlord had a small table and two chairs brought in, and the newlyweds dined by romantic candlelight, though the room came with bedside lamps, and they found that their landlord was utterly true to his word. The roast dinner was up to such a standard of excellence, Elizabeth found herself cleaning her plate, despite the positively squirmy wriggly feelings that shot through her stomach with hot delight when her husband grinned that teeth baring, laughing smile at her when she would cause him to laugh. So hard on one occasion, she feared at one point she even made him laugh so hard, with such errant fervor, that he slopped red wine from his glass, onto his boots. And Sir Richard had been right, she did not make a boring wife under any description. But of course, the laughter went both ways, and she nearly expelled a large amount of her own wine all down her front. Which would not do her wedding dress any favors whatsoever.

She had also had the exquisite pleasure of meeting Mrs Hopperton, when their supper was brought to them on trays to dine in their room, and Elizabeth saw that the woman – who she now declared the most finely skilled cook in all of Northampton, and maybe even all of the British Isles – was of the same hospitable nature of that as her husband. She was of the same portly size as her large husband, and her smile was too, so jolly and frequent, it had caused wrinkles to age her face. She had her greying hair pulled into a matrons white frilled cap, coiled finely, and her eyes were a fine even and jovial grey, her cheeks too, reddened from the exertion and heat of being in the kitchens, of which her white apron had splashes of gravy upon it, and Her battered brown gown had seen better days, but Libby had a feeling such a rich woman who owned an In such as this, would not wear her finest silks in order to slave over an oven. She also imagined she moved, much in the same manner as her husband, carefree as to her size and energy that her age robbed from her, navigating the narrow halls, to bring the Duke and Duchess their Tudor feast of a meal with gracefully quick ease like a polecat slinking up a tree. She had served them up four courses and no less, Elizabeth fancied she was the kind of woman who’d sternly berate her guests for being too thin, serving heaps and heaps of dinner to her boarders in odes to her welcoming nature. (Of whom, she knew, she treated like friends, rather than visitors) Libby liked her almost instantly. Especially when she chided her husband for not eating all his greens. She had greeted the newly wedded Duke and Duchess with such warmth and earnest kindness that Libby was moved by it. Thomas had stood and embraced the kind old Innkeeper’s wife as she wished him joy, looking heartened for a second, before she clipped his ear. _“Aye. And it’s about ruddy time you did marry too…”_ She had scolded. Clearly her acquaintance with Thomas was of such a longstanding duration, that she could ultimately nag him about why he wasn’t married, and do such things as make sure he ate all of his vegetables, as if he were a fussy little boy, and not the country gentry likes of a Duke. Elizabeth loved her almost immediately after that.

And so, after Mrs Hopperton eagerly curtsied and declared her well wishes for the pair, she too had slid away. And the night drew on, leaving the newly wedded couple alone in the fine bedroom, bathed in candle, moon and the fires light. Thomas smiled across to his bride, who beamed at him, her face was so perfectly lovely under the softer light which set an amber tinge to her ivory face from the fireplace behind her, the flame turning her hair into red spun silk.

“You know Mr and Mrs Hopperton very well, I see...They certainly show the most emotional partiality to you…” She smiled.

“I often frequent this Inn, what with my comings and goings to London from Derbyshire each year to town for the season, I always endeavor to stay here. The rooms suit me very well. Though I’ve never had the pleasure of staying in a room with such a _huge_ bed before... Nor with quite the most beautiful bride in all of England… ”

He smiled wolfishly at her, before sipping from his wine glass, his eyes turned truly wicked under the light of the fire dancing away in them in an utterly devilish manner, she thought. She smiled, averting her eyes to her lap. Sipping her own wine in an attempt to offset his lusty eyes from her own. Before it made her stomach go all fluttery, especially when she remembered that they would be sharing that _hefty_ bed later on tonight.

“So. We, um, we are to be, sh-sharing that bed later on, me, and. And you…”

She stuttered, her cheeks heating up. “Will…” She began to ask, dancing around the point of civility to approach such a sordid subject.

“I sense my wife is trying to ask me a question…” He spoke aloud in good humor. Leaning forwards, looking intrigued.

Elizabeth swallowed, _more like_ _gulped_ , nervously. Eye flicking up to his, her pretty lips gaped.

“You are asking me if I intend to make ours a true marriage tonight, by consummating it?” He asked. His voice dropping dangerously to a raspy, desiring tone.

Elizabeth’s throat was dry, and her words had left her, but she plucked up her courage enough to nod.

Thomas looked at her for a long second, his face carved into stark handsomeness by the amber light from the glow of the fire. Slicing those incredible cheekbones into sharpened weapons, and making those very blue eyes of his stand out like a beacon. Before putting his empty wine glass down and leaning forwards to take Elizabeth’s hand in his own, his fingers sliding over the cool bands of her wedding and engagement rings.

“My darling. I could never do you the dishonor of taking your virtue, here, in a roadside coaching Inn. When we do make love as man and wife, it will be when we are back at Chatsworth, in our own bed. And you needn’t be so anxious about the undertaking, when the time comes, I shall not do anything that moves you into unease. I give you my word upon that...If I am doing anything to displease or hurt you, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself…”

He promised. And the way he stared into her eyes, made her swoon. She was sure she would have dropped to the floor like a dried leaf in the wind, had she not been sitting down. She herself leant forward, halfway across the table to meet him. Cupping his cheek in her own hand, feeling the warmth of his skin graze the inside of her palm. Was it possible to be this happy? Surely it could not be, it felt like any minute now the hot warm yellow sunshine of joy inside her would split her sides and leak out of her in rapture.

“You are too good.” She exclaimed merrily.

His eyes turned all the more hot to her, she felt like a gaze from them could blister her skin.

“I’m hoping you’ll say _that_ in our marriage bed too...” He purred lowly, leaning forwards to seal his lips across her own. She smiled into his urgent kiss. _My husband is perfectly wicked_ , she thinks as his lips caressed her own with sweet aching and tender love.

When he pulled away, his gut lurched in desire for her, like never before. Here they were. Man and wife. Legally married, within spitting distance of a bed and a lockable door, and he knew, by law, he had a right now, as her spouse, to shed her out of that dress, rip it off her quickly, and tumble them both to the mattress to sate both their raging desire for one another. But he knew he _couldn’t. Not yet._ But his evil brain reminded him that the finishing line to his lust was merely hours away, and my god, if those wouldn’t be the hardest few hours of his life, then he didn’t know what would. It was the last few painful seconds of calm before the storm. Because even when he moment did arrive, he knows he would have to be gentle and kind to her. Unleashing such a powerful bout of furious passion on her could scare her. Never before had he thought of himself as a carnal creature, but his lust was making him see this now, that his desire was reaching a stage of pure animosity, not of gentlemanly civility. He had to do his best, and ignore his mind, to try and remember his promise to his lovely wife.

“I should probably get ready for bed now, if we have to be up early to make good time in the morning to Derbyshire…” She spoke in a hushed whisper against his lips.

“Indeed we shall.” He groaned in a hot shuddering breath against her lips.

He couldn’t let her sidle away to that powdering room, without first pulling her close by the back of her neck, and giving her a furiously rougher kiss. Which made her skin heat up by several degrees, he could feel her skin warm under his hand. The other of which was pressed to her cheek, she could feel the cool ice of his wedding ring brush her cheek in comparison to the hot skin of his palm. Almost as if the ring branded her, as his.

When he pulled away again, his brain was screaming in demands for more air. And his lungs were swelling inside his chest for oxygen too. So he swallowed, and removed his hands from her persons, now feeling that his body was tensing up, like a coiled spring, he was wound harder and harder every time he kissed her. It was damn near driving him mad.

Thomas watched as she stood, moving her chair back, and he watched as she stood and turned, but then she floundered on the spot for a moment, before tugging her skirts about as she turned back to face him, pausing for a second.

“Elizabeth?” Thomas asked, urging her on.

“My dress…” She began.

“It’s very beautiful.” He awarded, making her smile.

“It unfastens from the back, as does the corset I have on underneath…” She spoke gently.

Thomas’s blood shot up by ten degrees at that. The sip of wine he had just taken thudded down his gullet with a slugging noise to send it upon its way to its final resting place.

 _And now he had to partially help her undress. God truly liked to test him,_ he thinks.

“I’d be perfectly willing to oblige you, Lady Kenworthy...”

He smiled, as he came to stand behind her, swallowing, trying not to look as aroused as he was feeling, and watching as she turned her back to him, tucking her long hair out of his way, most of it was still pinned up, but a few misbehaving strands had defied her rule, and snuck down the back of her neck, curling against the nape of her neck. Until her pale slender fingers brushed them away. Only when she turned back over her shoulder and caught his eyes, did he realize that he had been staring at her. He blinked out of it, shaking himself into reality again, asking when at what point in time did he start panting deep breaths as he looked upon her.

His fingers fumbled towards the general direction of the ribbons which fastened her dress to her back, his fingers finding the stubborn knot, unravelling first the white ribbon that was synched about her waist. Letting it unwind, falling to their feet. He swallowed, his hands then finding the excellently tied knot which held her dress closed, he slowly unwrapped the bow from its hold, pulling it free, seeing that as he undid it, the back of the exquisite lace dress fell open, and he pulled open the string from each of its imprisoned holes, until he could see the entirety of her pale back, the slice of her shoulder blades under her skin, the blemishes of every dark and cute mole or freckle to her back. The intoxicating scent and heat from her bare ivory skin. That was nearly as pale as the white of her pristine angelic wedding dress. He loved that she had such colourless skin, a true British rose. But he fancied that now she was wed, she could forgo bonnets and parasols for want of trying to keep her skin freckle and tan free, he longed to take her for a walk about Chatsworth’s fine gardens on a ridiculously sunny summers day, and see her tilt her head up to the sun, and smile a sigh at feeling it’s warmth upon her face. Her eyes closed. Expression rested. Feeling the rays of light tangle in her long eyelashes and welcoming its heat to stroke along her cheeks. He loved that she had skin that flushed so obviously when she became flustered. She had skin the colour of the smoothest vast of cream, or like the palest milk that he wanted to pour into his tea in the mornings. He wanted to see how flushed and heated he could make it become when he dragged his lips just by her ear, whispering sordid things to her when he knew he really shouldn’t, all in want of making her creamy skin flush to a furious flustered pink. His mind threw up a couple of occasions of when he could best to this to her. He wagered he’d like to do it when they next attended the opera, sat in the dark, how he’d adore sweetly hushing into her ears all the wicked things he would do when he got her home once more. He wanted to do when they were waltzing together at some assembly or ball, hushing his roguish wishes into her ear as he twirled her about on the dance floor, crushing her deeper into his arms, clasping her tight to his chest. Making her tremble and fidget at a formal dinner one night with the entire family present, lost deep in conversation around them, and he would gently lean over and tease her with his heated pledge to usher her away upstairs after dinner and make long passionate love to her long into the night, until the night grew into morning. He longed to watch her innocent cheeks turn to a near shade of cherry red, and then watch as it crept along her neck, flourishing at her heaving chest as he declared his passionate assurances in a secret whisper.

He watched with barely restrained lust, as her fingers came up, and slowly ( _for gods sakes, so slowly he nearly whimpered like a pathetic puppy at the potently arousing sight_ ) stroked the dress down over her shoulders, moonlight from the window gleaming of her soft ivory skin there, taunting him. The moonlight could caress and touch her skin freely without liberty or question, which left him cheated and insulted. Because he had to restrain himself from being able to glide his hands along her like that. She bowed her neck down slightly, and he watched the pale column of her throat like he wanted to devour her. He wanted to leave no inch of her skin unmissed, he wanted to lay her down on that bed, sink into her body below him, and press kisses over every bare inch till her body quivered with desire to be taken., and claimed. When she moaned, he knew already her rasping lusty voice was like audible honey to his ears, and he would long to make her purr, arch, keen and mewl through her pleasure, one name through her lips. His name. _Tomorrow night,_ he promised himself _, she’d cry his name to the heavens when he had his way about making love to her._ Thomas then began this torture, unlacing her corset below slowly to reveal nothing but her naked back, and when his fingers brushed against her hot skin, dear god, he really thought he’d lose it. He had to bite his lip and focus very hard on not focusing too hard on her in that maddening moment. Lest he break his valid promise that he had uttered not five minutes ago, he was so aroused now, much more, and it would be hard to conceal evidence of his ardor from her. Eventually, he watches as the corset too, is freed from its – stupidly lucky – position of clinging tight to her skin. He watches at that too, pools limply at her waist so she could go and easily slide both of the things off. She thanked him, genteelly, in a rushed breathy whisper, every time his hands had skimmed her back, she had fought hard not to turn about and kiss his unfairly handsome lips for the way he was making her so very wanton.

She moved to slide away. But something stopped her.

His hands. His hands stopped her. Before he could realize that the traitorous things had gripped her waist like a mechanical vice, incapable of letting her go. Clamped tight about her lace clad middle. Not letting her move an inch away. And before he could fathom it, his lips were on her neck, whispering, kissing, nibbling praises onto her skin in a way that made her gasp a shuddering breath

“God, I love you, Elizabeth. I love you so madly, it’s insane. I’m mad about you. I _worship_ you...”

He growled into her skin, his hot breath rolling down her collarbone, his words soaking into her skin. His hands stroking down up her back, sliding to her hips, swaying her lithe frame back into his hard hot body that felt like he was inclined to explode into a mushy messy explosion of lust soon.

“I love you something wicked too, Thomas...”

She groaned, her hands sliding into his thick jet black hair as his head lay forwards on her shoulder as he sucked to the part of her where her neck joined her shoulder, her head craned up high, eyes closed in bliss, lips parted open wide as she moaned his name when his lips met her skin. That tiny little groan nearly made him come undone.

“I wish I could worship you on that bed. Right.This.Very.Second....”

He growled, pressing a regiment of kisses to march along her shoulder. He doesn’t know what is holding him back, here she was, moaning his name in his arms, half undressed. And he still had the capability to have self-restraint. _It was nearly foolish of him_ , he thought. He was so hungry for his wife, he was no worse than an animal wanting its mate or its kill. He, the big bad wolf all fairytales warned against, and she, the demure little doe who had strayed too far from the safe path. But however badly he needed her, he needed to remember his promise. Above all else, he owed her that. He owed her the honour of claiming her purity in their own damn bed at home, not in some in with thin walls and people down the hallway within earshot.

His hands didn’t want too, but they slid obediently to his sides before he could reach out and snatch her back again, catching her.

“You should go and change for bed before I do something I promised you, and myself that I would not…”

He rasped lowly. Patting her bottom, trying to ever her away before he became the true meaning of a cad, and dragged her to that bed, claiming her. In all the ways he wanted too, but could not.

She turned, offering her husband a look for a moment. A solemn little gaze that found his magnetic eyes glued to her own. He hoped she didn’t take his dismissal the wrong way, that she didn’t take it as some sort of refusal of her virtue on his behalf. Which is why he was surprised when he found her hand linked to his left shoulder, and she leaned up on tiptoes to press a tender kiss onto his lips. Speaking when she pulled away, before she walked across to the powdering room, holding her dress so it didn’t fall off her, and expose them both to more lust than they were already feeling currently.

“I hope you know that you are the best man I’ve ever known. Thomas.” She smiled, cupping his cheek, before she slid away.

After she left, Thomas watched the door she had just shut behind her for several seconds, listening to the rain worsen, and batter the window outside. He crossed to the table, and took a long gulp of red wine, straight from his glass. Draining the contents down in one. Letting the mellow aftertaste burn his throat.

“I’m really not to my own mind, darling…”

He thinks as he stands the glass down, then stalks across the room, and heaves his body to collapse atop the large bed in despair. Groaning in desperation of how badly he wanted, but could not have, his beautiful wife.

 

~

 

When the powdering room door opened again, a fair few long minutes later, after Mrs Hopperton had flitted in and out as quickly as her feet could carry her, to fetch the empty dishes. (Leaving the bottle of wine as Thomas groaned to the landlady that he may need it) Thomas had crossed to the window, and watched as the torrential rain spattered and ran down the Tudor crossed windows. He had sprawled his body into the chair, one of his long legs folded up, the other out in front of him like a resting cricket. He listened to the storm raging away outside, and the gentle comforting patter of rain, feeling the soothing heat from the fireplace warm the back of his neck as he turned his back to the room behind him.

When the latch clicked open, and he heard his wife’s nimble footsteps cross the bare creaking boards behind him as he stared out of the window, only then did he turn. Just in time to find a slender hand slid down his shoulder, he clasped her hand in his, and turned his head to find her smiling behind him, and his eyes fought not to widen and devour the sight of her with hungry eagerness.

Her hair had been pulled free of being tangled artfully in pins, and now, tumbled in a cascading long red wave down to her upper back, ending just below her shoulders. On her delectably divine body, she wore a long silk green gown, which billowed open, showing him the divine sight of what she wore beneath it. It was a white silk nightgown. And the way it showed off every curve and was trimmed with lace in places that were designed to tempt and beckon a man right out of his sane mind, made him know that the gown had not been purchased on the basis on warmth it would provide her. He could see the straps that made the ting cling to her shoulders were very fine, and led down to a great deal of trimmed lace resting about her bosom, showing him the upper swell of the ample things. The way it was cut down her waist fit fairly well to her slender body, but her legs is where it got very tempting. To one side, he could see that there was a large slit, ending at her mid-thigh of her right leg, tied with a bow where the slit ended, and all across the front of her thighs, high up, it was trimmed with the same lace that made her chest look so divine. Snaking up her middle, so he could see patches of her pink skin wink at him from underneath.

“I can wear something else if you’d prefer it…” She spoke up after a long moment of him staring at her midsection without speaking.

“Don’t you dare. Elizabeth Kenworthy.”

He bit out, harshly, in absolute authority that she should know better than to question, making a smile bubble up onto her lips. As he stood up, quick as a shot, and swayed her body into his arms, his hands coming up to glide past her silky clad derriere, cupping it, to force her to arch up into him, molding her close to his body. He promised, when she was in the other room, that he’d stay away and leave her be, to go to sleep in peace, but there was little chance of that now. She had worn something which was made for temptation, and she had irrevocably caught him by it.

“I love that is to be your surname for all of eternity now...” He smiled proudly.

“Your wife, sir, I confess that she’s been keeping a secret from you upon that matter...” She smiled, letting herself get held tight in his arms.

“Has she now?”

Thomas asked with a smile and a raised brow, smile widening by the second.

“She rather likes her new surname too. Atleast, if not more than his lordship does.” She beamed.

“I think you can dispense with the ‘his lordship’ bit. It wouldn’t do for you to moan that in bed...” He growled, nuzzling into her lavender scented hair.

Elizabeth’s body curled up in pleasure like a drying leaf, arching up as those giddy blissful sensations galloped through her skin at what his lips did to her skin.

“Careful lest I rescind my compliment of what a lovely virtuous man you are, Darling...” She giggled.

She watched as he leered wider in his own wicked intentions.

“Right. That’s it…” He snarled,

Elizabeth realized she had let out a small yelp, especially as he sunk down to his knees and snatched her off her feet and into his arms. Slinging her lithe body into a fireman’s carry. And hauling her away to the bed. Sweeping her across the room as she clung to his strong neck, and he lifted and walked across with her as if she were no weightier than a feather. She laughed as he hauled her away like he was a stubborn caveman who was used to his own way on all such matters. And, she supposed, he was. He was a _Duke_ after all.

“Thomas, what are you doing?-“

She asked, before emitting a clumsy ‘Ouff!’ as he threw her to the bed, she landed with a gasp atop the soft quilts and blankets, just in time to throw her hands up and press to his chest as he loomed over her, his black hair hanging down in his eyes as his front pressed her down into the bed. Making him feel very masculine and powerful, and she, was left feeling very feminine and weak led under her husband, who curled her hands into his own, kissing each of her palms, before roughly pinning her hands above her head, making sure to arch her body up into him, and forcing her to watch, as his lips leaned down to capture the pale cross of her clavicle in a kiss, feeling her rounded hips and her gloriously supple thighs buck up into his own hips, as his lips travelled lower, coming to press a delicate kiss to her sternum, his lips burrowing further down to press closer, rubbing down to the valley of her breasts. He delighted in hearing her gasp at that, moaning slow and long at his attentions.

When her body arched into him again at his touches, and kisses, he released her hands, and slid up the bed, further over her, to catch the side of her vulnerable neck with his lips. Hearing that she moaned louder at the unexpected intrusion he took upon her body, but he smiled against her throat. Dragging his hands slowly down her sides, savoring her like this. Pinned beneath him. Helpless, wanting and slowly being driven to lunacy at the mercy of his skilled lips. Elizabeth felt giddy as she felt him slid the gown off her, freeing both her arms from the lovely thing to press it down, forgotten, to the bed below them. His hands skimmed down her arms, up her thighs, sneaking under the dress, caressing the insides of her ticklish elbows. Down past her shoulders to skim at the silk of the skin that lay there.

When he pulled back, leaving her skin tingling in pursuit of more of his attentions, needing more of the delicious heat that was starting to fire her blood, when he left, she felt cold, aching, and in need of more to sate her. And Elizabeth knew she’d take anything he’d gladly give to her. He spoke in gentle words for the ragged assault of lust he just unleashed on her.

“I hope you know that tomorrow night can’t come soon enough for my liking...” He grumbled.

“Nor mine.” She beamed.

He groaned and dropped his head to her shoulder.

“You’ll be the death of me, Miss Elizabeth.” He moaned against her shoulder.

“I shall endeavor not to be. I rather fancy a long plentiful life with you dearest.” She beamed.

He reached over and kissed her lips.

“Then, upon my word you shall have it.” He grinned.

She smiled her beautiful smile up to him, and before she could protest, he ushered her under the covers – lest he perish of his desire – and after he pulled on a loose cotton sleep shirt and breeches, he too joined her, easing under the thick quilts to join his wife. Having snuffed out the candles, letting the fire blaze away. He shuffled his front right up to her back, nuzzling into her wonderful and magnificent red hair, smelling the warm womanly scent of her, and knowing that night, he would drift away to his dreams with his arms clutched about her tight, and his lips pulled tight into the biggest smile.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 


	37. Chatsworth House, and Meeting the Thatcher Kenworthy Ladies...

 

 

 

 

~ Before we get to the House, Elizabeth's gown, I just have to include, as per usual, I love it ~

  

~ Chatsworth Manor, Garden's and Meadows surrounding it ~

~Some Interior glimpses too ~

 

 

 

~

 

The next morning dawned bright and clear, despite the rainstorm that had proceeded the dark evening the night before. The gardens were still sodden with rainwater from the storm, moisture in the air like hung like a veil over the bright landscape. The clouds were far beyond their reach on the horizon and promised not to pour rain on them. The sky looked blue and genial. Elizabeth had awoken hugged tight in her husband’s arms, hearing birds sing their calls on the wisteria vines out of their window. Thomas kissed his bride awake once he saw her rouse, and began to demand the starting of his fifty kisses each day from his wife. Of which she happily obliged him with. Kissing his cheeks and laughing as they rolled around in bed together under the covers, his hands sneaking to her hips, and his lips managing to find that spot he always could upon her neck. They had upped, bathed and dressed. Elizabeth dressed in a pale ice blue gown, that had a scooping sweetheart neckline, and she managed to do a remarkably skilled job of winding her hair up into a coiled style without Nessie’s assistance. She was just sat at the dresser, layering a slight layer of rouge onto her cheeks, when her handsome husband appeared in the doorway behind her, catching her eyes in the mirrors reflection. As his hands focused with doing up his cravat, today he wore a neatly pressed linen shirt, underneath a ice blue waistcoat which nearly matched the intoxicating hue of his eyes. To his legs he wore charcoal grey breeches and long black boots that she had learned were his favorite boots to wear. He watched her for a long second, making her face presentable, smiling across to him, before she bat her lashes, down casting her eyes as she put two drops of fragrance to her wrists, and small diamond droplet earrings - the ones Mrs Sharpe had brought her to wear for their wedding – into her ears, seeing that the morning sun glinted off them as she smiled back to Thomas, still leering at her from the doorway.

“Stop it...” Elizabeth grinned nicely.

“Stop what my lady?”

He asked wolfishly. Eyes naughty and wicked. Hands still working furiously on the knot to his cravat. He wasn’t having much luck with them these days, it seemed…

“Looking at me with that _smile_ of yours…” She beamed, flickering her eyes away from his as she placed everything back inside her vanity chest, to safely pack it for their travels.

“A smile does not have a devious objective dear.” He smiled back.

“Clearly you’ve never been on the receiving end of one of your dazzlingly handsome smiles…”

She awarded, rising to her feet, and turning, crossing to join him in the small doorway, their chests and bodies not far off touching as she watched him still try to get his cravat to cooperate.

“Funnily enough, as it happens. I have not been...”

He simpered. Frowning as his tie just refused to be amiable and tie right. No matter what he did to settle the attempts.

“Yes, well, believe me when I pronounce your smile beholds more impish intent _than any_ I have ever had the good grace to see before…” She chided with that genteel smile of hers that he adored.

“It’s a husband’s god given right to seduce his ravishing wife with a mere smile...” He waggled his brows cheekily. Winking at her.

She shook her head, in a sigh.

“You are too fetching for your own good. Sir, and what’s worse, I fear you know of it...” She told off wryly. “I fear Sir Carlton’s rakish ways must have rubbed off on you…” She added, He laughed to that. Still messing with his neck tie.

Elizabeth’s hand covered his own and he let his wife fiddle with his tie, maybe a woman’s touch would get the job done? He didn’t mid admitting to that. But he would applaud her if she could manage to get the bloody cursed thing to behave.

His hands slunk to her hips, and she gave him a stern reproaching look. Clearly the cravat was as mischievous and as disobedient as the man whose neck it was around…

“You look very lovely beautiful this morning dear. Blue becomes you very well indeed…”

He smirked, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek, his lips attempting to be naughty and slide around to peck at her throat. To that little spot that made her lose all of her senses. His hands slid further up her back, squeezing her slender waist close. To better push her bosom close to crush into his chest. His eyes slid all across her face, she was so close, he could smell her delectably scented breath from the sweet earl grey tea they had partaken in at breakfast, he could see every darting movement of her silky blue pupils that nearly matched the hue of her dress as she examined his cravat, and he could count every individual sweeping eyelash, he watched as she bit the inside of her bottom lip, focusing hard on her task, and he adored to see her beautiful face from such a close angle. He remembered some long since passed day, at that Masquerade ball, when they had first danced the first waltz. He had been pressed close enough to her to feel her breath on his cheeks to let himself gaze deep into her eyes, pressed to her chest as he danced with her held close to his front. And he was learning that he was addicted to her like this, a mere centimeter away, wanting so badly to grant her a kiss that could lead to many more things. He wanted his lips to sweep down her neck, and not stop kissing down and down until she was naked under his arms, stripped from that dress, and laid bare for him to consume like she was his caught prey.

“I thank you for such praising flattery, my love.”

She smiled. Leaning close, and pressing the quickest of kisses to his cheek. Loving the way he smelled like his fine gentleman’s cologne that she watched him pat onto his cheeks after he had shaved earlier, she had rolled over in bed to watch him, stood in just a pair of black breeches, barefoot, with a white towel slung over his shoulder, his bare lean and muscled ivory chest on display as he raked his razor down his soaped up cheeks, rinsing the razor in the bowl of warm water to the front of him, his dark hair swept back across his forehead. As he leaned down, his height too tall and towering, he had to stoop to better gain access to the mirror. She had hugged her pillow close, and smiled as she watched him go about his normal morning routine that she had never seen him undertake before. It suddenly dawned on her that it was such an incredibly intimate and raw thing, to see him going about his business, and to see him do such a confidential act, made her all sunny and warm inside when she thought to the fact that she had the rest of her life waking up to him doing this.

Thomas looked down south, his chin to his chest as she slunk away. Crossing to place her vanity chest back in the luggage trunks by the end of the bed. In the place where his pedantic tie once was, now sat an expertly tied cravat. Tied just right, not too tight, and not so loose that it was floppy. It was perfect. Just like his perfect wife. He thought, astounded that she had managed to do something which he could not.

He gawped after her. He married a wonder woman, he thought idly, and without any exaggeration on his behalf.

She crossed to their luggage, and began pressing some of their things down deep into the trunks, and as he watched her, luckily – for her honour and his dignity – there came a knock upon their room’s door.

“Do come in...” He watched his wife call sweetly. As she placed one of his shirts into the case, strapping the buckles back across it not long after.

She turned to the door just in time to see the flabby and elderly figure of the grey mutton chopped Ramsey, their driver, stand cautiously in the doorway. Looking to his Master and Mistress within, being so courteous as to take off his hat.

“Begging your pardon, Mi’lord, Mi’Lady…”

His country twang broke the silence of the peaceful room, and the ambiance of lust that meant Thomas was dangerously close to kissing his wife again. Proving to her for hours all the ways in which they should not let that huge comfy bed of theirs go to waste.

“I’ve come for the rest of the trunks, to start packing them, Sir. Ma’am.”

He offered politely. In the hallway behind him, Thomas and Elizabeth could see the youngest two strapping Hopperton lads ready to assist in lugging their cases down the stairs. He had met them before, and had always given them a half crown each for their help. Bobby and Rupert Hopperton, two brown haired, green eyed brothers, dressed both in white shirts, brown waistcoats, leather boots and scruffy muddy brown breeches, who were always polite and helpful, and who were now red faced shy adolescents who were gawping rapturously at his Wife.

“Thank you Ramsey.”

His blood boiled.

He had not yet been able to make love to his wife, so to see that two _tots_ were gazing at her like she was a goddess ripe for their plucking, devouring her with their eyes like she was a spectacle at a burlesque show, made him see red. Only he, had the privilege of smirking and dissecting her figure like that. It wasn’t jealousy. It was protective possession that made him furious to the two of them.

His jaw stiffened too, though an amiable polite smile remained on his face, he glared his finest glower at the two youths. Who were very busy letting their eyes slide down to his wife’s ass as she leaned forwards to lower a luggage trunk to the floor, turning bright red and averting their eyes when they saw the thunderous looking Duke on the far side of the room. Especially as he glared a fatal daggering scowl to them. Elizabeth turned and saw her husband’s furious look, frowning at it, before she turned and saw how she was positioned, with her bottom sticking out as she bent over, she quickly straightened and turned to see the two boys were red in the face and looking a little slack jawed at her.

“Thank you. That will be all…”

She bit off nicely to their driver. Nodding as she crossed back past her husband into the dressing room to fetch her coat and reticule she had laid out, passing behind Thomas, who stood impassive, like a human brick wall, arms crossed, giving his best spearing and icy gaze to the two, who quickly plucked the rest of their luggage up, and scurried away, he sent the puppies fleeing with their tails between their legs. Knowing for certain who was the alpha dog, and pack leader, around here, and her.

He heard Ramsey chuckle to the two boys when they were far away down the hall, carting the luggage down the stairs. And when he also heard two sharp slaps, and two cries of ‘ow’ and ‘ouch’ he smiled, safe in the knowledge that his driver had given them both a good much needed clip across the ears. Thomas heard them both whine as to why he had thwacked them one, he gave them a truly fantastic answer.

“You two had yer’ wandering randy eyes set on risky places on the newly wedded Duchess of Chatsworth, which could, by law, cause the Duke to rightfully batter ya’ both into next Tuesday were he not so forgivin’…Yer’re lucky you’ve both still got all yer’ teeth in yer’ head.”

Ramsey chided, assuring them seriously as to his Masters protectiveness of his Duchess.

Thomas smiled as he went to fetch his coat from the dressing room. Making a note to _double_ Ramsey’s wages when they got back to Chatsworth.

 

~

 

They left the Dusty Duck not long after, Mr and Mrs Hopperton and their wandering eyed sons out on the drive to wish them a farewell, and a safe journey. Elizabeth and Thomas thanked them both most sincerely for their wonderful hospitality. And Thomas, though he wanted to give them both a rap across the knuckles, still gave the two young boys, Rupert and Bobby, a half crown. Gazing at them in a manner that said inaudibly _‘you know what you did’_ to the both of them. And then they were on the way, having given Mr and Mrs Hopperton’s their farewell, and an overly generous tip. Hastings and Willard sat to the back, Ramsey at the front, and they were off. All four horses happy and fed, spoiled with sugar cubes and carrots all evening. – Thanks to Hastings, who assured them, _‘happy horses, mean a happy journey’_ and Elizabeth had remarked him to be utterly wise on such a matter. They had made good time too, within three hours, what usually took four, they found themselves just outside Loughborough. They only had two and a half hours to go now, which was a blessing, Thomas by this point, was so besotted with turning to look at his wife’s ears as she read her book, he didn’t think that he could stand much longer of not being able to lean over and kiss the lovely little soft shell like things.

He peered to the front of her book, and grinned.

“…And how are the Miss Dashwood’s faring?”

He asked her as they lumbered along, feeling every bump and rut in the road. He adored that she had a partiality for Jane Austen. He often had to hear Edith go on and on about how her works were the finest thing to happen to literature, and to women. And he liked to think that his wife and his Ed would get along in the sense of common ground of adoring their favorite authoress together.

“Very well at present. I believe that Mr Ferrars is very close to proposing to Miss Elinor…”

She grinned, looking to him as she shut her book on her lap, smiling to her handsome husband by her side, sat looking adoringly at her. As his face was just too charming and lovely for her own safety’s sake. With those melting blue eyes, his sinful cheekbones and his stupidly lovely smile.

“ _Ah,_ how well everyone adores a good happy ending...” He purred as he smirked.

“I believe they do. As do I myself...” She added.

“How is your happy ending shaping up, Mrs Kenworthy?”

He asked as he leaned closer, nuzzling his lips closer to her cheeks, hushing words into her ear in a rascally manner.

“I wouldn’t know…”

She smiled as he pulled back from her lips, looking a little wounded, before he watched her smile wider and speak once more.

“I do not think our happy ending has even begun yet. I feel this is only a splendid new beginning, and not a finale at all in the slightest.” She smiled wickedly at him.

The wide smirk that crossed his lips right then at her words was the loveliest sight she had _ever beheld._

“I _adore you_ …”

He whispered before he leaned close and kissed her, _hard._

When he pulled back, he kept his lips very close to her own. As he mumbled something else against her lovely mouth, his clever tongue sneaking to caress the corner of her lips not long after.

“I cannot wait to show you Chatsworth. If I know you but at all, dear wife, I wager you shall adore it. And I shall adore making you so very unutterably happy…” He mumbled against her mouth.

“I think that’s true love...” She murmured back

“What is?”

He grumbled before they kissed again, as he stroked his bare hands down her whale boned corseted back. Pressing her chest into his. He perished at the feel of the side of her soft breasts pressing into him. Making a deep rumble of a guttural growl tear through his chest.

“When your contentment depends on the happiness of another person…”

She smiled, before his lips pressed quick kisses in rapid succession against her mouth with soft, gentle smacks, and before she could protest, she brought her hips all the way to the side, and pressed her back flat down onto the crimson velvet bench below them. Uncaring if he mussed her hair.

“All of my delight is owed to you. All the joy, the lust, the passion. The reason I smile, the reason I get out of bed every morning. It is all for want of loving you, dear Elizabeth...”

He rumbled lowly, so lowly she nearly missed it, allowing her hand to come to the back of his neck, toying with the curling strands of silky black hair that rested there. He adored how she massaged her fingers to comb through his hair and brush against his bare hot skin.

“…All my life, I wandered about, aimlessly like a lost creature, thinking I would be trapped into a loveless marriage union. To a silly woman whom I didn’t even love, and cold never learn to grow too. Not knowing why on earth I was born, why I was made to live. And Then I met you, and I knew right away. I knew I had been made for you, and you for me _. You were_ my new life. And now that I have you, I wake up each day knowing that you are the very reason that I _breathe,_ the reason I _exist._..”

He promised, whispering into her ear, and she answered him back by taking his head into her eyes and beaming a watery eyed and so very glad smile up at him. He was not a man of few words, he had laid his devotion to her at her feet many times, she knew that much already, but he was a man who had just poured open his very heart and soul to her. And how she _loved_ him for it.

“I am certain I will never be able to repay my father for what he did in introducing us to one another...” She hushed back “How can you repay someone for giving you your life’s worth?”

A wicked grin passed his lips once again.

“We could give him lots, and _lots and lots_ of grandchildren as our thanks…”

He winked before his mouth was on hers again. As he spoke between his words, kissing down her throat this time as he let his desire for his wife become evident.

“Also. As soon as I laid my eyes on you, I knew I had to have you. I had to marry you and make you my Wife. And I had to have you in the bedroom too. I want you on the bed, on the floor, up against the damn wall, bending over, sweating, and trembling with me until we come undone together. _And my god, Elizabeth,_ there are not many things on this earth that render me weak. But you, my love, you do. And I’m going to please you and have you in so many ways you’re going to be sensitive and expended when I am finally through with loving you…”

His lips molded to her own, his body pinning her to the bench again, caressing her lovingly, his hands roaming all over, setting fire where he dared to touch and love her skin.. So long as they kept this up, their lips would be red raw by the time they reached Chatsworth Manor.

~

A couple of hours passed, and eventually, they did cease with the kissing, Thomas stated that he needed her to be energized for later, with a sly wink. She, had blushed and obeyed, watching out of the window as the lovely rolling splendor and green hills of the English countryside passed her by. Seconds and minutes ticking over into hours as she thought over her new life, looking out across the landscape. Woodland turned to stark meadows, and small villages. They passed rivers and long valleys. Until Elizabeth was assured she’d love every single blade of green grass, and every large oak tree in this lush part of the country.

She didn’t realize that she had been away with her thoughts until Thomas spoke up, leaning over her shoulder to watch the pleasant wild meadow roll them by, Elizabeth could see a small grey bricked village which they passed down, she could see horses and carts, aswell as a local pub, and a fair few shops littering the little cobblestoned streets. It was a charming and busy little hamlet, ladies and gentlemen walked arm in arm down the pavements. Strolling along in the afternoon sun, the town was clearly a hive of activity. She could see a milliners, a dressmaker, a tailor, a haberdashery and a ladies haberdashery. Aswell as countless tea rooms and small country Inns and pubs.

“Do you like it?” Came a smile from Thomas at her ear.

“I love it.” She offered back, not turning to face him, he watched the side of her face creased in a smile as she kept busy adoring the picturesque village.

“It’s very pleasing to me to know that you like it…” He smiled.

“A favourite town of yours to visit too?”

She asked her husband. Watching as he gave her a genial grin.

“No. But as it is not five miles from Chatsworth Manor, it would me well to know that my wife is suited to our nearest rural community.” He smirked.

Elizabeth’s heat flipped over in her chest like a little child’s windup toy.

“Five miles?” She asked in a gasp. “We are five miles from Chatsworth?” She asked incredulously, and with nervousness to her eyes.

“Yes, my dear.”

He answered her worries. Soothing her as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Rubbing a thumb over the back of her hand thereafter. As if pressing his kiss deep into her skin.

“You hand in mind to tease me with this anticipation all along, haven’t you?”

She inquired as she narrowed her eyes and smiled through her blue eyed glare.

“Maybe a little bit...” He winked.

She tilted her head at him, showing him she would not to be so easily conned. Letting him know he had married a woman with a sensible and rather overused brain, he had not wed himself off to an empty headed Miss whose cranium was full of cotton wool and sawdust.

“Ok. I’m at your mercy, My lady. I had it planned since we first passed Edgeware.”

He fessed up at her look. How could he not? He adored her in spades. Even when she japed and glared at him. Admitting he had planned to surprise her with the whereabouts when they had not been on the road for twenty minutes from home.

So, she turned her head to the window once more, and continued to watch as they let the little town pass them by, until they came to pass many open fields with streams and rivers throughout. The wondrous meadows and fields filled with either wildflowers, or hers of cows. She was reminded how nice it would be to get London’s smoggy air out of her lungs, it would do her good to be country bound for a good long while, she fancied. But as another field passed them by, she felt her stomach drop as the carriage passed under a canopy of spreading oak trees, and then turned, heading through a huge wrought iron gate, and starting up along driveway, lined with huge spreading horse chestnut trees, which the light of the slightly amber evening sun started to reach through.

She clutched at her husband’s bare hand.

“Are we here?”

She asked with a nervous tone to her voice.

“Welcome to Chatsworth Manor, my love. Ancestral seat of the Kenworthy’s for eleven generations…” He smiled.

If Elizabeth heard him, she did not show it. For she had her nose nearly _flattened_ to the glass of the window. Watching as the carriage ate up more of the distance of the drive behind her, and when the house at the end of their path came into sight. Her breath deserted her, and she didn’t think she would ever breathe another.

She knew two things. One, that the term ‘house’ could not be used in the same sentence to describe the enormity of the palace that her eyes had taken in. and Two, her husband was far too humble for his own good.

Because he had told her much about Chatsworth as a whole, but never anything about its vast size. As far as the eye could see, all she could make out was the stunning yellow brick of the house as it came into view. It must have been no less 200 rooms, or more even. The roof was high and arching, and slanted with grey slate. It was at least three floors, not including the attic rooms, of which she could see in odes to the small rounded windows up there. It even had turrets and a very French gothic style tower to one side. And if there was ever a time when she felt more like a princess in some fairytale, then now was it. She had her prince, her handsome heroic knight in shining armor, who had saved her in damn near every sense of the word. And now she had seen their gleaming castle, where they would live happily ever after, she knew that her life was by far, not able to get a whole lot better than it was right now.

“Thomas…”

She gasped, struggling for words and air. Her tone could have been her trying to gasp a reproach to him in a chiding sort of way, but he could not be sure on the subject.

He smiled, as watched as she did not take her eyes off her new home in front of her.

“You said country gentry, not country _royalty…_ ” She finally squeaked.

“Oh. Dear. Did I not mention the size?”

He teased playfully, tipping a promiscuously inappropriate wink at her.

Her answer was to just gawp at him, her blue eyes and pretty face set in shock.

“I cannot, even, Fathom a reproach to that teasing comment…”

“Then how affected you must be….” He leered, her wit was fine and sparkling, and sharper than most rapiers he had fenced with at the gentleman’s clubs in London.

She gasped, blinking and looking back out of the window once more to make sure her eyes weren’t playing a trick on her.

As the carriage lurched to a blissful stop, Thomas longed to get out and stretch his legs from being so cramped up. And as all the respective footmen, Duke, and driver alike smiled at seeing their home once more. Elizabeth was still in awe. It took a call of her name to dislodge her from taking in the tall entirety of the house looming tall over her, before she finally realized that Thomas was calling her name softly. She peeled her eyes away and found him, stood down on the graveled drive, holding his hand out in to assist her. Making sure she didn’t trip on her skirts this time, like she did when they exited the carriage at the Dusty Goose Inn. Thankfully, Thomas watched as she exited safely and with little fuss, letting her eyes drift to the house as she climbed out, her eyes still fighting to take all of its beauty in in one fell swoop.

Thomas grinned, looking up to follow her eye line as she examined the Manor.

“Do I need to ask if it meets with your satisfaction?” He asked with his wryest smile.

“Igu- Iybibb-iddiit…”

She stumbled and stuttered, sighing as she flickered her eyes all over the vast palace in front of her.

“That isn’t actually classified as lucid speech, darling...”

He laughed. Taking that as her answer. He could only be led to assume that her speechlessness was a complimentary thing. He knew her to be so logical and free flowing with her words. His stemming them completely was a grand accomplishment.

 _Of all this, I am to be Mistress_ … Was her one singular thought.

“You are a very cruel liar to take pleasure in seeing me suffer so plainly like this…”

She grinned to him at last when she remembered what words were once again. He chuckled as he looped his arm through hers. Clearly they had surpassed everyone’s predictions, for the staff were not lined up upon the drive to meet their new Duchess. But none the matter. He was assured they would be introduced to her in turn, and each of them would be felled by his wife’s immeasurable charm, and beautifully lovely smile. They crossed across the gravel, which crunched under their shoes as they walked, coming up a couple of steps to cross into the grand front door, of which Hastings and Willard parted for them, gladly smiling at the couple, before going back to the coach for to fetch the rest of their new Duchesses belongings.

Thomas halted her before their shoes reached the concrete steps going into the house.

“There’s something I have forgotten…” He burst out suddenly, pulling her back. His eyes hot and eager.

“What is it?” She asked with careful enquiry.

Her answer came when he stooped down and swiped her clean off her feet. Cradling her body into a carry, to sweep her across the threshold as was the done thing in Victorian Marriages nowadays. Ensuring that his bride would not stumble, as this was thought to bring bad luck to their marriage.

“We can’t have any shoddy luck to encroach on our nuptials or married life now, can we?”

Thomas smiled, effortlessly walking his bride past the tiled foyer, and into the cool interior of his home. If the outside left her speechless, then the interior was enough to leave her quite stupid. He walked them into a huge foyer area, lined with black and white crossed tile to the floor all around them. Large floor to ceiling windows allowed light to flood in to their right, the windows reached up to a balcony and a landing above. Leading into a huge archway which passed beyond the wall into the next room. Lined either side with intricate marble carvings to flank the doors. But the ceiling made her get lost in its beautiful wonderment. Still encased in her husband’s arms, she let herself crane her head up, taking in the artfully done figures who swarmed the roof. Raphael, by her guess. They looked absolutely stunning. And she knew this room was her favourite one so far. And she was bound to have so many more favorites by the time the day was out.

Thomas grinned down at the sight of his enraptured and speechless wife. His blue eyes searching over every inch of her gloriously beautiful face. Never mind his home. He’d seen it a thousand times, it was not breathtaking to sight to him. _She,_ however, _was._

Thomas set her gently down, helping her to stay on her feet. Loving how devoted she was already t the house.

“Remind me to reprimand you for such gross insolence and blatant modesty later...” She hushed in a gentle whisper.

“Will do.” He chuckled with a wink, folding his hands behind his back.

“Don’t be too stern handed with my punishment.”

He rasped lustily into her ear in a hot growl. Her cheeks pinkened as her smile grew wide and she met his eyes head on. Smiling a lusty look of her own across to him.

“If you liked last night’s nightdress, then you’ll _simply adore_ the one I’m planning to model or you this evening…” She hushed back into his ear.

His stomach melted at that. And he had to remind himself not to go ragingly hard at that, and whisk her away upstairs to his room right this very second.

“ _Oh,_ now who’s the tease, My Lady?” He groaned wolfishly.

She beamed back, stepping a couple of meters away to better examine the ceiling. Before she was interrupted in her quest by a succession of footsteps making good speed towards them both from atop the stairs. And not before long, a little excited squeal ran high to the ceilings above her.

“UNCLE THOMAS!”

Came the elated scream. Elizabeth turned to see the little occupant of such a high pitchy voice, seeing that a pretty woman, perhaps only five or so years older than she, walked down the stairs, well, walked was an underestimation, she was being tugged down them rapidly by the furious straining five year old to the front of her. Nearly tumbling them both down the steps to crumple into a heap at the bottom. The little blonde butterball of, Elizabeth could only assume, Judith Thatcher-Kenworthy who was chomping at the bit, giggling and laughing, smiling her wide enamored little grin across to her beloved Uncle. Whom grinned wide upon seeing her again. His little poppet.

“ _Heaven’s,_ Judith, he will still _be there_ when we get to the bottom…”

The older woman, presumably her mother and presumably Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, Thomas’s sister groaned as he eager little puppy of a five year old tottered away, sprinting right across the floors to run full pelt into her uncles awaiting open arms as he crouched to meet her, swooping her up into a cuddling embrace. Her little grin ecstatic as she closed her little arms about her Uncle, grabbing on tight, her blonde hair sailed behind her when she ran, tucked into little blue ribbons to match her blue dress, her white stockings and her pink silk slippered feet. He hauled her into his arms, coming to a stand, towering her away from the floor, ripping her feet into the air.

Elizabeth watched, smiling, as her husband hold his little niece with tenderness resting on his expression as he closed his eyes, and hugged her tightly back. Pressing a kiss to her blonde buttery hair.

She then saw as Iris glided across the floors to come to her. Libby saw her cheeks were reddened from the exertion of having such an energetic child to entertain. Her hair was as dark and thick as that of her brothers, and her eyes just as ashen blue mingled with a silvery grey.

“You must be Elizabeth...” Iris smiled. “I am so happy to meet you in person. My brother wrote of you, to me, so warmly. I see his words fell short of trying to do you justice…” Iris beamed. Teasing her brother.

“Hush you.” Thomas grinned past Judith’s hair which strayed into his face.

“I am honored to meet you. Iris. And I must insist one thing. Instead of thinking yourselves as guests in my home, it is, in fact, the other way around, I am Chatsworth’s humble guest here, not you and your family, and I shall not be fought upon the matter.”

Elizabeth insisted, cupping Iris’s hand in her own.

Iris smiled.

“He did not underestimate your spirit, so I see.” Iris Smiled warmly.

“Welcome to Chatsworth, your new home, Lady Kenworthy…” She grinned.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	38. ~ Meet the Lovely Thatcher-Kenworthy Ladies ~

 

 

 

~ Let us meet the Lovely Thatcher Kenworthy Ladies of Chatsworth Hall ~

 

* * *

 

 

 

~ Our favourite, the most gentle and kindest, Iris Thatcher Kenworthy ~

* * *

 

~ Our very own 'duplicate Iris', and lovely - absolutely not pest like whatsoever - bookworm, Edith Thatcher-Kenworthy ~

* * *

 

 

 

~ Our cheeky little poppet, Judith Thatcher-Kenworthy, also formally known by two other names as ~

\- Captain Judith,

or

-Queen Judith..

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

~ And Our Mad Aunt Ophelia for Good measure, I didn't include her pet parrot, Fidget ~

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	39. Butler's, Queen's, and Sneezes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More coming soon, we shall meet a lot of new characters...

 

~

 

“Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, allow me to introduce my wife, Elizabeth Violet formerly, Farrow. Now Kenworthy...” Thomas smiled. Judith still squeezing the living daylights out of him, about his chest.

Elizabeth smiled wide at Thomas’s sister. Seeing she had the same type of ethereal beauty that clearly ran in the family, shared by her brother. Her dark black hair was full and thick, and slightly wavy, she could see, as a large coil of it had drifted away from her simply done chignon which was tied in an artless bun down to the back of her neck. And the pale skin that her brother also inherited from their family, was flushed with, she could only imagine, the exertion of running about after Judith. Her eyes were brightened by the exercise, she was ever so slightly breathless, and her cheeks were wildly pink. Elizabeth also could see that the Kenworthy’s were gifted as a tall family, though Iris seemed the same height as her, drawing level, she could see that the woman was slender and willowy. On her body she wore a fine frilled white dress with very few bustling skirts to it, she was at home after all, and she could relax her dress. And leading down from her fine swan like neck, her neckline led away into a demure lace trimmed collar. And Elizabeth could see that she was everything Thomas had painted her as. Humble, demure and lovely and yet ever so gentle, Iris Thatcher Kenworthy. And when she spoke, she spoke in docile and even tones, her voice was smoky and soft, and entirely pleasant. Just like her character. The kind of woman of whom you knew made a genteel and nurturing mother. She had the most unpretentious disposition.

“Your Brother was perfectly wicked, he told me nothing of my new home’s size…So as to simper at my expression when we arrived. Me expecting a humble Elizabethan country manor of no more than maybe, 20 rooms, perhaps, at best, so you can imagine my astonishment when we pulled up to this palatial sized Versailles of a manor. ”

Elizabeth offered to Iris. As she speared Thomas with a particularly shrewd look. To which he smirked at.

“He has always been cursed with a good natured desire to taunt others…”

Iris offered, hands on her hips as she shook her head to her grinning twin. “Believe me on that...” She smiled.

Iris watched as Elizabeth turned to give Thomas a withering glance. Iris took a moment then to properly survey her new sister in law. Even from talking to her for all of a minute, she could already see why Thomas had fallen in love and married her. She was charming, but not arrogant. Iris was so relieved she would not have a terror of a bride to put up and share her home with. But then Elizabeth had slid through the doors, marveled at the home in adoration and already had been most insistent that she was the guest here, not the family. A woman of lesser generosity – like the usual crowd of airheads who preened over her brothers fortune and looks, would have marched in here, turned their nose up at the out of date décor, and demanded that Thomas throw his widowed family members and wards out on the ears, with nothing to sustain them. But Elizabeth had walked in, astounded and in thorough respect of her new home. Iris adored that. It was certainly something that she had thought may been at risk of happening when Thomas wrote and told her of his marriage. She had been overjoyed, of course, she had wept in joy that he was wed, so thrilled that he had found someone who he deemed worthy to carry the Kenworthy name. But now Iris had seen her, she could understand how Thomas had not just married her, but was also madly enamored of her. Especially by the way Iris could see him looking over now at his new bride. And what’s more, she liked that Elizabeth was kind and gentle. Thomas had married a saintly woman, and Iris could not wait to get better acquainted with her. She had a predetermination that Ed and Judith would _adore_ her. As she would herself.

Speak of the devil, as Elizabeth looked to her husband, and when she did, she saw that Judith’s big blue eyes were blinking nervously over in her direction, as she buried the lower half of her face in Thomas’s shoulder in shyness, her eyes still remaining upon Elizabeth. Whom smiled wider at the little girl, who, began to emerge out of her reluctant shell, and smile back at her. Before she then went on to stage whisper in her uncle’s ear. Not knowing that Elizabeth and Iris could hear every word.

“Is she a princess? She looks like one.”

She asked Thomas, who grinned wide, his eyes catching Elizabeth’s for a second. As Judith was still on the shy side when it came to being near strangers.

“Why don’t you find out, Poppet?”

Thomas whispered back, standing the little one down, and coming to drop his knees into a crouch by Judith’s side. It was now that Elizabeth could see that the Teddy Bear which Judith had been perilously dangling onto when she hugged her uncle, was in fact, dressed in a courtly medieval gown with a floppy fabric crown nestling on top of its ears.

Elizabeth came to a crouch, easing her skirts out of the way, feeling her sky blue velvet jacket strain over her shoulders as she knelt down, uncaring if it was unlady-like, but then again when had she ever been as such? Judith thought that it was the prettiest gown she had ever seen, the long blue bodice atop scalloped white skirts, and her hair was such a pretty shade of fiery red which she had never seen before. And she looked every inch like a princess which appeared in many of her bedtime stories. Who was always rescued from a dragon by the handsome prince on a white steed.

Elizabeth smiled kindly to her as she spoke.

“I confess, I am not a princess. But, I am inexplicably honored to _make your_ acquaintance, _Queen_ , Judith. I am very glad to be invited into your grand palace...”

Elizabeth played pretend. Curtseying. Bowing low to the little girl, who giggled a toothy little grin back up to her.

“Word has travelled far and wide of your kindness, it is said in London, to me, that you are a very fair, wise, and gracious ruler, Mi’Lady…”

Elizabeth played further, Thomas could see that judging by her ecstatic grin, his niece was half in love with his Bride already. Iris stood behind bother her brother and sister in law, smiling wide at the sight.

Yes. She liked Elizabeth _very well indeed_.

“Though I think I am, Ed doesn’t agree with my rule.” She spoke. 

“A crime punishable by death, _ey?_ Judith?” Thomas winked.

Judith nodded eagerly.

“Surely not. Such a pretty and reasonable ruler, such as you, My Queen, would _never_ consider the death sentence in her own kingdom... Correct me if I am wrong?” Elizabeth gasped.

Thomas’s niece giggled with glee.

“Only when Ed is horrible, and Mummy does not let me have extra pudding…”

Judith raised her chin, standing tall and proud, issuing the laws of her rule. Iris rolled her eyes, smiling. Hands on her hips as she stood prominently.

“Oh, in that case. Then it is permitable…” Elizabeth joked.

“Say, Iris, where is Ed?”

Thomas asked kindly, still kneeling, but looking up at his sister.

Iris gave him a castigating smile. Tilting her head gently.

“You know she is never out of that damned Library for more than 20 minutes of the day, books are her addiction…” She offered. “I’m sorry she is not here to meet you personally, Elizabeth, as it is we heard the carriage arrive, but it appears, Edith has her nose firmly stuck in a book, as always...” Iris explained.

Elizabeth waved away her apology.

“That passion is never something that needs to be apologized for.” She explained with a soothing smile. “I am caught by the same affliction myself, sometimes.”

Iris laughed.

“I think you needn’t worry about not being liked, here, Lady Kenworthy. You have the fussier of my two daughters charmed, and the other will follow her impression when she learns of your passion for reading. I daresay by tonight, the entire household of staff and the family shall be enraptured...” Iris predicted.

Thomas grinned, slinking his wife close into his side as his hand slunk about her waist, after they both rose to a stand again.

“Lady Elizabeth?”

Spoke up Judith again, tugging on the front of her gown, to which Elizabeth looked down upon the tot.

“Yes, My Queen?” She answered.

“I find myself in need of more people in my court. As Queen...” She preened.

“I should like that very much, Your majesty. Pray, what job did you have in mind?” She enquired.

“I need someone else to read me my bedtime stories. Nanny Lyons, does not like the fairytales like I do.” Judith leaned close and stage whispered to Elizabeth. “She makes me read my sums each evening  She says they are more practical..."

“Despicable…” Elizabeth huffed angrily. Before she smiled down to her.

“I accept the job posthaste, Mi’Lady. And may I suggest Thomas also lands a job on your council...”

“But, as what?” Judith asked in a wildy amused screech.

“He would do very well as a court Jester, do you not think? We could get him one of those funny hats with the bells on…” Elizabeth winked.

Judith burst into peels and howls of laughter.

Thomas smiled angrily at his wife, and out of Judith, or Iris’s sight, his hand snuck down from his wife’s waist, and Elizabeth fought not to shriek or squeak in laughter as his hand firmly pinched her on the behind.

“Very well indeed. Thomas, you are my court Jester, because Princess Elizabeth said so…” Judith decreed.

Elizabeth smiled wide. She had gone from stranger to the rank of Princess, all in under a minute, which was quite an impressive achievement on her behalf. That took quite some doing at the hands of a most auspicious five year old.

“I felt missed and loved when you hugged me poppet, or am I of no consequence now, thanks to my wife?” Thomas asked his niece, feigning hurt as he clutched a hand to his heart in agony.

“She’s prettier than you are, and she smells nicer than you do. You smell weird, you smell of manly things. Princess Elizabeth smells nice, like flowers...” Judith explained in her very five year old way.

“He does smell a bit funny, does he not Judith?”

Lady Elizabeth winked, whispering behind her hand directly to her Queen. Judith giggled, nodding.

Thomas squeezed his wife’s waist closer as he spoke to her.

“You are turning my very family against me, Princess Elizabeth…” He purred in mock anger to his wife.

She smiled back.

“It cannot be helped. I was merely agreeing with the opinions of my good queen.” Elizabeth answered back with a smile.

Thomas grinned to her. Before Iris came forwards and took Judith by the hand.

“Come on, your highness, as your royal adviser, I suggest it is time for us to let the Princess see her new home, we must go and see Nanny Lyons for your Mathematics…” Iris played along too. Elizabeth was very pleased to be part of such a joyous and kindhearted family.

“We shall see you again in a little while. I believe Wilkin’s will be searching for you like a hawk, Thomas. He wants to introduce you to the household staff.”

“Wilkin’s?” Elizabeth asked.

“Our Butler…” Iris explained. “He is very proper about the correct procedure for things...” Iris smiled.

“As any Butler should be...” Elizabeth offered.

“It was beyond lovely to meet you, Elizabeth.” Iris smiled gently with every good intentions in her tone. Iris never said things she didn’t mean, Thomas knew that. Which meant that she really did like his wife _very much_ already.

She then stepped forwards, and gave her brother a comforting squeeze of a hug.

“Congratulations. It’s _so good_ to have you home...We missed you.” She grinned.

Thomas smiled, his sister’s hand patted his cheek before she slid away, and smiling at Elizabeth, taking Judith’s little hand as they began away from the newlyweds. Up towards the nursery.

Elizabeth curtseyed, and Thomas bowed before Judith waved goodbye, taking her mother’s hand, and toddling away, the teddy bear whom she held by one arm dragged its legs along the floor behind her.

“Thomas, your sister is lovely” She spoke after they were out of earshot.

“She is.” Thomas smiled.

“She adores you already.” He promised.

She blushed at that.

“..And your niece...” She was cut off by her own laugh.

“Will _never_ be _boring_ …” Thomas finished for her.

“I daresay not.” Elizabeth grinned.

“Wait til you meet Ophelia…” Thomas shuddered. “She is as batty as a cave full of bats…” He joked stiffly.

“I cannot wait to meet her.” Elizabeth smiled.

“She scares off most of the housemaids, and if we ever have guests. She is very selective about whether or not she likes someone...” He offered.

“I shall try my best to please her.” She smiled.

“I doubt you’d have to try very hard at all... Your charms are effortless…” Thomas smiled.

She grinned back.

“Come, my dear. We should go find Wilkin’s before he has my head for improper behavior…”

He smiled, leading his wife over to a long hallway that led down past more exquisite parts of the house, they rounded the corner coming down past the largest orangery she had ever seen, that was undoubtedly of French design. She was getting lost in the splendor of the wonderful house. The décor, the size, the architecture of it, it took her breath away.

Thomas watched her admire it all, her lips agape in a gasp.

“Supposedly, the house is a strange half breed of French and English design. In 1793 when Baron de Rothschild began to design the build on the stretch of farmland he bought, apparently, a wandering drunken and mad French architect offered his services to assist with the house, seeing as he was a French aristocrat who had escaped from the clutches of the Revolution. And as he had been a favourite in the court of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, He helped design the turrets of the house and the orangery which were in the styles of the many chateaus he had visited in his Mother country.”

“The house was designed by a French madman?” Elizabeth asked with humour.

“Salacious, isn’t it?” Thomas grinned like a wolf. “I adore this house and its history. I hope you shall too, My Duchess...” He smiled, looking up at the grand old place.

“I shall not even have to try adoring it...” She offered.

They came down a long corridor, seeing that a large oak door lay ahead of them. Thomas’s hand just about touched the door handle, when it was pulled open from the other side, and the both of them were greeted by an open mouthed butler, who seemed pale and aghast at seeing a Duke and Duchess on the other side of the door.

“I think he can sense when I am near. My hand has never yet reached the doorknob…”

Thomas whispered to Elizabeth, putting her at ease from how nervous he knew she would be from meeting all of Chatsworth’s staff.

This must have been the famous Wilkin’s which Iris had spoken of. He had a long and thin, pale face, a head full of silvery hair, and eyes so green, they could have been emeralds. Wrinkled age lay heavily by the crow’s feet which sagged over his eyes and the weathered way his cheeks sagged hollow on his angular face.

“Your Lordship…”

Wilkin’s began. Otherwise, saying nothing, showing them he had intended to be out on the drive with the entire staff lined up to greet them as they arrived.

“Wilkin’s, May I present to you my wife, the loveliest woman in the world, Elizabeth Kenworthy, the newly wedded Duchess of Chatsworth...”

Thomas grinned. Motioning to his wife, who smiled prettily at the Butler.

“My deepest congratulations, Milord. Milady, it shall be a pleasure to serve you...” He bowed after he smiled warmly at the both of them in a way granite faced butlers often did not, this showed Elizabeth that the Butler was of such a long standing station, that news of his master marrying was cause for merriment.

“Thank you Wilkin’s. It shall be a pleasure for me to be part of your household…” Elizabeth smiled gently, touching the butler on the hand. Her tone warm and pleasant.

Thomas noted that Wilkin’s eyes glowed a touch warmer when he heard the new Duchess say ‘your household’ not ‘my household’ she was kind and smart enough to know who truly ran things about the place. And she was humble enough to insist upon being the guest here, though she was now rightfully married to the owner of it. The house, by law, when she signed her name as Kenworthy on the marriage register in the vestry when they were married, was now hers. But she would not allow all the peoples whose home it had been for years, to believe that she was in charge now. She was settling into their lives, their house, not the other way around.

Then the unthinkable occurred, the Duke and Duchess watched as Wilkin’s eyes shot wide, and he let out a loud sneeze.

“Oh!” He exclaimed, looking as if he wanted to melt into the ground in embarrassment.

“ _Oh,_ do not be so silly Wilkin’s. It is a sneeze...”Elizabeth smiled. ”It cannot be helped…” She added.

He sneezed again, just as he managed to gasp out

“A good butler never sneezes…” Thereafter letting out three more sneezes in rapid succession.

Elizabeth had never seen a member of staff look more distressed, or flustered. After a quick smile to Thomas, she slid forwards and took the hunched over, still sneezing butler, by the shoulder and helped steer him about. Presumably he had come straight from the kitchens, and before Wilkin’s could protest and gawp at such intimate contact with a Duchess whom he’d known for only five seconds, Elizabeth had walked him away to come through the doors…

“Come on now, Wilkin’s. I know of an excellent remedy to help the sneezes. We shall have you cured in no time, no time at all…”

She soothed, guiding the man away by the arm, in the direction she assumed was the way to the Kitchens of Chatsworth Manor.

Wilkin’s, who had already betrayed more emotion to them both than he’d shown in all the years Thomas had known him, let himself be led away by the new Lady of the House. Not being so much affected, as to not stop thanking her profusely all the while.

Thomas only smiled as he was abandoned in the hall just off the orangery. It had taken less than thirty seconds for her to charm his Butler, and he knew the other servants would soon follow suit. She would have the whole house beguiled in love with her by the time Night fell, he fancied.

“Let us go to the kitchens…” He heard Elizabeth insist aloud.

“Now. Where the devil are they?”

She added in a way that made Thomas bark out laughter at his new wife.

 

~

 

 

 


	40. Mad Aunt's, Demure Nieces, and Love at First Sight...

 

~

 

Thomas waited outside of the kitchen’s, in the sparsely furnished orangery for over half an hour waiting for his wife’s return, clearly she was taking ample amounts of time to introduce herself to every servant that his house boasted of. He smiled. He liked that about her. And he also adored how she was so genteel as to let everybody in the house know that she was new here, not even going as far as opposing herself on the servants. The people who were here to attend to her. But if he knew her, at all, she would insist that they treat her as no more than an ordinary being, a close friend, rather than a strictly severe mistress. He smiled, throwing his head back and leaning far back on the comfort of the small chaise that he reclined on, feeling the sweeping triangle of the afternoon sun blaze across his eyes as he closed them, the rays of light warming his face as he led there, his arms spread wide across the chaise’s fabric upholstery, legs crossed as he savored the events of the past few weeks in a blissful smile and one long exhaled breath. It was grand to be home, and it was even better to think he never had to trawl down to London for another abysmal year of wife hunting, he had found his beautiful English rose among the jagged undesirable thorns. And now he had her. In nearly every sense. He wouldn’t count that victory as a whole one, until later tonight, when she was naked, spent and purring his name in their bed because of him.

He grinned, chuckling to himself when he thought upon the irony of the entire situation of meeting Elizabeth from start to finish. He had almost given up hope of finding an amiable wife, he remembers himself thinking, as he travelled to Dinner that night at the Farrow’s townhouse on Montague Street, and how he would never guess, that fate – and Sir Richards’s plotting mind – would throw them together abruptly, to start upon their wonderful journey of love. And he had an uncanny feeling that the past few weeks were just the beginning of a long life of merriment to await him.

He sighed in content again, his stomach lining and his heart going all warm and fuzzy at even the mere _hint_ of a thought of his wife. And he grinned wider because of it. Despite the urgent and _evermore ardent_ clamoring’s of his body and his mind. He had, honestly _, never_ , been happier.

He heard Iris and Edith before he saw them. As Edith often liked to practice her reciting and reading to her mother, he knew that most often his young niece adored to recite her favourite works aloud to Iris, possibly Ophelia if the old bat was in a particularly even tempered mood. And even, on very rare occasions, Judith, if she sat still long enough. He could tell that at this very second, as his eyes sprung open, and he grinned, that they were making their way down the Northwest staircase, and he could hear Edith recite in that soft, humble yet strong voice of hers, that was just almost mirroring her mother’s. Because Edith and Iris were so alike in temper and looks, it was uncanny. He didn’t call her his ‘Duplicate Iris’ for no good reason.

Her hair was just the exact same dark shade of obsidian like Iris’s, and her eyes were just as stormy grey. And she had her mother’s striking beauty too. But a touch more innocence to her face, than his middle aged sister. Edith had no wrinkles, nor aged lines to her mouth or eyes, she had unmarred porcelain skin. She too, always wore the cooler of the dull colours, but she couldn’t give much care to her appearance. Not that she looked underdressed, ever, just that, as she was blessed with the pale Kenworthy skin, she preferred plain, simple cool tones and colours. Like soft blues, warm greys, white or cream, or even a hint of dark plum if she cared for it. Thomas peered through the large double doors, which led out onto the bottom of the stairs, seeing the side profile of his sister, and his eldest niece as they made their way slowly down the stairs, Edith looking across to her mother as she read a poem aloud. Thomas delighted at hearing her lovely delightful, and even toned voice read aloud as they walked;

 _“_ _I_ _s love a fancy, or a feeling? No, It is immortal as immaculate Truth. 'Tis not a blossom, shed as soon as youth Drops from the stem of life— for it will grow, In barren regions, where no waters flow Nor ray of promise cheats the pensive gloom. A darkling fire, faint hovering o'er a tomb, That but itself and darkness nought doth shew…”_

She paused, presumably to draw breath, as her passionate recital continued. Thomas grinned, she had not seen the slumped form of her uncle recline on the sofa, right ahead of the arched doorway at the bottom of the stairs where she now stood. Edith, too engrossed in her book did not see him. She was that beguiled by her reading. Iris grinned, and Edith swirled round, her lovely face the picture of perfect surprise, as she saw the relative who was like a second father to her, smile and speak from his position of being slumped on the sofa, grinning to them both. For how many times had her caring, and adoring uncle read Sonnet VII, by Hartley Coleridge with her? Til their ears bled was the answer. She, and indeed, he, adored it. He and Edith had a somewhat special bond, he would always read her off to sleep before she became too old for such a thing, as Iris was usually occupied with putting Judith to bed, the turn of reading and reciting stories to his eldest niece, fell to him. And they never tired of reading together because of it. He was always bringing her home the latest novels from London. And this year, he did not disappoint, he had a half a trunkful of books for her. Aswell as a lovely red haired rather beautiful wife to introduce to her, for she loved books and reading almost as much as he knows she did. So Edith would be head over heels for Elizabeth, _that much_ he knew of already.

 _“….._ _Is my love's being,— yet it cannot die…”_

Thomas began, speaking loudly, seeing Edith grin stupidly wide over at him, making her way hastily as her uncle stood to meet her, reciting all the while as she crossed the orangery floor with speed, and fell into his open arms and hugged him tight.

_“Nor will it change, though all be changed beside; Tho' fairest beauty… be no longer fair, Tho' vows be false, and…”_

He struggled, cursing himself inwardly for letting the rest of the verse slip from his brain, But Edith looked up at him, beaming, as she helped him finish his verse.

_“…and, faith itself deny, Tho' sharp enjoyment be a suicide, And hope a spectre in a ruin bare…”_

She spoke fluently, finishing the sonnet, her smile wide and her eyes bright as she kept her arms about her uncle’s torso, hugging him. As he nodded, and they both spoke the words in a unison duet as they came to finish it.

“I see you’ve been practicing in my absence, then, Ed.” Thomas smiled, squeezing his mini Iris close.

“When would I ever not?” She grinned at him. He chuckled to that.

“Does your mother still chide you over the fact that you spend more time with books than you do with real people?” Thomas asked. Raising one wry brow.

Edith gave him a look that suggested that his statement was very true.

“Books are far more compatible in character to me, than people.” Edith maintained with a nod.

“You’re making my job as a singular parent, so easy, Thomas...”

Iris growled in her harshest tone, which really wasn’t very harsh at all. As she crossed her arms and attempted to look cross.

“Reading, and enjoying books is not such a terrible misconduct mother...” Ed insisted.

“It is to the extent when it begins to starve you of basic human interaction, my dear. We have not seen hide nor hair of you for barely a week.” Iris pointed out softly to her daughter.

“There is nothing wrong with the dear child reading the way she does, mark my words, she’s better off for it. Some of the girls your age with whom I had to converse and socialize with in London, for pity’s sake, wouldn’t know how to pour water out of a boot if there were instructions printed on the heel…”

He remarked quietly winking to his niece, seeing Ed laugh, and Iris look more angered. Which again, _wasn’t really_ very angered at all.

“Besides, I have a feeling your voracious appetite for books will not be stemmed when you meet Mrs Kenworthy. She too is an avid patron of books, almost, I daresay, as much as you are.” Thomas insisted.

“Where is Elizabeth? You haven’t _lost_ her _already_ have you?” Iris asked, craning her head to see if she could see her new Sister in law in any of the adjoining rooms.

“She is meeting the kitchen staff, no doubt making every single one of them so very assured they would give their own lives for her defense, which is a darn sight more than they’d do for me.” Thomas grinned.

“Elizabeth loves books too?” Edith asked, smiling.

“Adamantly.” Thomas grinned.

“She is wonderfully kind, Thomas. So very charming. However did you meet her? You’ve never spoken of her before...” Iris asked curiously. He then remembered his sister was something of a die hard romantic.

“ _Oh,_ if I had met her before in my visits to London, _well_ you would know of it...” Thomas assured his sister with a firm nod.

“Her father is the new accountant whom I went to visit, do you remember? The Mathematics Professor on Montague Street?” He asked Iris, seeing she nodded through her smile.

“Well. They invited me to a family Dinner, and…”

Both Ed and Iris watched as his eyes went downcast, and his eyes glowed warm and bright with loving nostalgia. It heartened them both to see and know how truly in love he was. This was not just a marriage of good fortune for business, this was nothing but a marital union based on nothing more than pure _earth altering, love._

“… And that is where I saw and met her for the first time. It’s odd, it seems so long ago now, yet it was only a mere few weeks…”

“You fell in love at first sight, didn't you?”

Iris asked with a lilting smile and omnipotent curiosity.

Her brother’s eyes met her own as he beamed. 

“Yes. Iris. I did."

He awarded her in admittance. And she looked awfully pleased to hear his confession on such a matter. Her brother was, perhaps, not as romantic as she was. And now he had been felled right away, almost instantly, from the sight of one woman. It was touching to see, because he had always practiced being a man of sense, and level headed pragmatism first, one whose brain decided his actions, not his heart, but clearly, one encounter with the woman whom he was now wed to, and he had ceased to be so inflexible at something which he had often insisted he would not be at all effected by. Edith was right as she oft quoted;  _Amor Vincit Omnia_. _Love conquers all._ It could even conquer Iris's obstinate brother, the man who always sought a wife, so as not to be so lonely anymore, and who was always assured he would not find one whom he could ever grow to love, and still, love had worked its wicked magic, and claimed him wholly. And that in itself was a _truly, grand_ thing.

“And yet you always teased me for being such a hopeless dreamer when it came to being a romantic person. You did it when I married John, and continued doing it, even after this one, and Judith was born. And we moved back here, and up to this day you have always teased me about my adoration of love, Thomas. But I don’t think you’ll really be in a position to mock it as such now, will you?”

Iris asked, her eyes alight with wisdom and truth.

Thomas smiled, wondering when the little gnat of a sister who used to irk him as a child, trailing round after him, had grown up to be so wizened and realistic. Better than that, he also knew and would admit when his Sister had him beaten to the win on such things.

“As always Iris. You know I _can’t_ lie to you.”

He offered, his final white flag on the matter. Declaring that she was correct. His sister didn’t look like she had bested him, pointing out all the ways in which he used to nudge her in the ribs when she read silly romance novels, and wept of joy when she did. Though he’d still offer her his handkerchief to mop away the tears, and even when she’d just do simple things, like remark how beautiful the big fat roses in the gardens were, he’d still give her that look that informed her she was being soppy. Iris Thatcher Kenworthy was not capable of looking upon those she loved, or anyone for that matter, with playful triumph at besting him in her eyes. She just looked _kind_. As she always did. And Thomas knew she was only doing it to prove him wrong in all the years she told him love was a powerful thing. Only now, did he _truly_ appreciate what she meant.

“Has Lady Kenworthy met Ophelia yet?” Edith asked demurely.

“She has not. And I thank the lord that you sane people will be here to support me, and her, when she does. We can only all pray that the senile old biddy does not do things that are _too batty_ …and scare off my new wife…”

Thomas awarded. Scanning about the gardens searching for his mad great aunt.

The three of them were unaware they were about to be joined, however, by none other than the lady herself. Who slid in through the open orangery door, seeing the small cluster of people gathered by the chaises, armchairs and exotic potted plants, on the far side of the large, bright room. Ablaze in the ochre tones of the evening sun.

“Your new wife, _sir,_ does not mind declaring that she herself does not scare quite as easily as you so claim…”

Elizabeth remarked as she made her beaming way across to come back to his side. Wilkin’s was now happily situated, settled - now sneeze free – and back in the kitchens, restoring authorative order in efforts for preparing tonight’s family dinner. Elizabeth would have offered her help on that too, had she not subjected the Butler to such embarrassment and mortification enough for the rest of the calendar year. She had bid her goodbyes to Elsie, her ladies maid, the cooks and the rest of the lovely staff whom she had met, and returned to where her husband was most probably waiting for her. Chatsworth Manor was so vast, after all, she knew he would not let her get lost without him, and on the first day in her new home, too.

“For she is made of far too _sterner_ mettle…”

She added, as she came to Iris, and the lovely debutante, whom she could only assume, was the elusive and wonderfully bookish Edith Thatcher Kenworthy.

Thomas grinned as he turned to hear her melodic voice. The dulcet tones of which made him leap to attention, and turn in her direction. She glided across the tiled orangery floor, like a vision of pure beauty gracing all of their mortal eyes. The ice blue of her gown, and velvet jacket grew evermore bright in the suns light, her skin all the more pale and lovely, and her hair looked like untamed flame, coiling down from her head. Her diamond earrings caught the light, and she offered her new relative her kindest smile. Edith liked her already, her comment to her husband reminded her of Elizabeth Bennett, one the most stern, complex, and headstrong characters in all of English literature. Edith already could sense, that she was flamboyant, but respectful. And her smile hinted of a more demure side, even though she had a thoroughly elegant countenance about her. Edith could see she was certainly _very_ beautiful, there was no doubt about that. But the way she held herself didn’t declare that she was a vain or narcissistic woman. She didn’t wield her beauty ahead of her to get what she wanted. She used soft tones, and politesses. She charmed and used her abundant kindness instead.

Elizabeth smiled wide at Edith as she came to rejoin her husband’s side.

“You, I presume, are the infamous Edith Thatcher Kenworthy? I have heard much about you, your uncle sings high praise to the heavens of you.”

Elizabeth asked, holding out her hand, which Edith took, smiling, and shook gladly curtseying.

“I am pleased to meet you, My Lady.”

Edith offered politely.

Elizabeth smiled, but nonetheless, she still looked taken aback.

“ _Oh,_ my dear. There is no need for such formality. I am not even used to being called _Mrs Kenworthy_ yet, so you can imagine how unfamiliar I am with being referred to by such a formal title as a Duchess. Just Elizabeth will do…”

She offered nicely. In such a way that made all her new relatives, and husband, smile. As ever, she was so diffident. Thomas thought.

“Pray, you may correct me if this is not true, but my husband told me that you are particularly fond of books. Is that of any truth? After today I’m not so sure I trust his judgment to a full extent…”

Elizabeth smiled across to Edith, rolling her eyes up to glare in a particularly chiding yet smiling way up at Thomas, who grinned back as if he had done nothing wrong at all, she was prodding a barb at her husband for keeping from her the truths of his riches, and the size of his home.

“Yes. He was not lying in that respect, I can’t believe my uncle Thomas would ever lie. Apart from when he tells me I am the smartest adolescent in all of Derbyshire.”

“I don’t think he is teasing you in such respects. I met you a mere five seconds ago, and already I can tell there is more than sawdust between your ears. Not alike my own ten and six sister, there is, how shall I say…” She began, her eyes rolling off to the side as she thought.

“…My sister Felicity bares too much yardage between the goal posts, so to speak.” She grinned.

Edith smiled wider, clutching her Coleridge book in her hands. Which Elizabeth saw. Smiling as the dogged and tattered book was obviously a favourite. Edith was old enough to be out of the school room by now, so the reading must have been for pleasure, rather than learning.

“May I level a guess then, that your sister does not enjoy reading as much as you?” Edith asked.

“Indeed, she does not.” Elizabeth awarded. Speaking as if it was a terrifically great, inside blackening, soul rotting worst sort of evil.

“Sinful to my mind.” Elizabeth offered.

“I heartily concur…” Edith grinned back.

Mrs Kenworthy nodded absolutely. Glad to be agreed with.

“I would be inclined to believe your uncles praises, Miss Thatcher. For my father often remarks in regards to my Sister, to our stepmother, _‘Mrs Sharpe, our life boasts very few distinguishing achievements, but here, I think we may safely brag, sits the silliest girl in all of the English speaking planet…’“_ Elizabeth quoted her father, smiling as Iris, Edith and Thomas all laughed at her.

“…So you can see now, why your uncle gets such good bearing on complimenting your intelligence, and you’d do well to receive him on it. I’ve spent my life growing up around empty airheads who possess lesser passions for literature and sense in their little finger, than you do in your whole body. So please do me the honour of never feeling ashamed for loving what you love, nor being who you are comfortable to be. For I know people who have half that gallantry about them, and they shall never be satisfied...” She assured her. Seeing Edith’s eyes grew warm and bright on hearing that.

“In other words, your uncle is always right.” Thomas concurred. Edith laughed to that.

“And may I just say, I also adore Hartley Coleridge. Let me hazard a guess, Is your favourite sonnet, Sonnet VII?” Elizabeth asked Edith. Who nodded, unashamedly.

Elizabeth grinned, wide.

“I do adore that, but my own personal favourite is ‘The Solitary Hearted’ give it a read later, I promise it won’t disappoint you.” She promised. “Look out for my most beloved line, _‘of human thought with unabiding glory; Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, A visitation, bright and transitory.’”_ She smiled.

“I do not think I have come across it before.” Edith remarked. “I shall certainly look for it, it sounds rather plaguing. And you read very beautifully, Elizabeth, you must come and help me index my books tomorrow, I can help you sort some of yours into our library if you so wish, for I know my Uncle Thomas will be too busy with work, and my mother preoccupied with Judith. Please be there to assist me, for finally, there is someone in this house I find with a keenness for books that rivals my own...” Edith clamored.

Elizabeth smiled. She could never deny that plea.

“I should be more than happy too.” She awarded.

“Besides which. They are both cursed with such boring reading voices. It is a sibling’s trait I believe…” Edith barbed cheekily to her mother and her uncle.

“You are straying into pest-like territory, there, Miss Thatcher Kenworthy. Do have care and be on your guard.” Thomas warned in a low growl and a smile, raising one lofty brow. Hands behind his back as he stood tall, towering and impressive in front of all his ladies.

Elizabeth watched as Iris sighed, smiling, and rolled her eyes. She could not muster such errant anger, she was a placid soul, after all, as Thomas had always told her.

“But is not the point of a ten and sixed aged ward to keep you on your toes, dear uncle?”

Edith grinned, eyes suspiciously cheeky and wild with humour. Her smile, still lovely and demure, challenged him.

Thomas lowered a smile to her.

“Bite your tongue, Thatcher. You’d never know trouble even if it came and bit you on the behind...”

“I concur.” Iris added.

“The lord has given me many things, but among those, are two daughters who are, remarkably exempt from being troublesome...” She offered, placing a kiss to Edith’s dark hairline.

Edith rolled her eyes, _she had fought valiantly, it seems, but nonetheless in vain._

“ _I say,_ what on gods good green earth is all the _bloody palaver_ about…”

Came a clipped little bark of a staccato command from beyond the halls, out leading in the direction in which Thomas and Elizabeth had come from. All three women, and one man, peered through behind them, to see the short little doddery frame of one Great Aunt Hester Emmeline Ophelia Maude Kenworthy make her way towards them all. (She never used her married name, Ridgeworthy. And when Thomas had once asked her why she never used her wedded name, she had exclaimed with a perfectly straight face, _‘why would I still continue to use that dead silly buggers name when I am still cursed with life? –_ needless to say, Thomas had never quizzed or asked her on the matter ever again)

“Brace yourself…”

Thomas whispered to his wife lowly under his breath.

For such an old woman, she made her way quickly, she was short and frail. With a pale pointed face, and snowy white hair to match. She did not use the aid of a walking cane. And today, Thomas could see she was dressed in a musty old moss green number, with her mad pointed crocodile skin shoes on her feet, with great big fat glittering jewels hanging off every one of her green velvet gloved fingers, she assessed all three of her relatives, and the new stranger with a little wrinkled glare from her beady little eyes, which were brighter than ice. Much like her families were, Elizabeth noted. He watched with alarm as he could see _the infamous_ teapot slung under her arm, as she tottered right up to Elizabeth, dissecting his love with a sweep of her cold calculating eyes. Beady and intelligent, staring up to his bride.

“So. You’re the new Duchess, are you?”

She asked. Straight to the point as ever. What would be the point, after all, in expecting a traditional greeting from the mad woman?

“Indeed, Ma’am. I am.”

Elizabeth steeled. Not daring to move too boldly. She wasn’t all entirely sure why, but she felt as if she was being tested. Tested by the weighty and mighty force of Great Aunt Ophelia.

“ _Hm_.”

She offered. In a small little bark.

“That’s great Aunt speak, for ‘hello” Thomas translated. Leaning into his bride.

“And you, Kenworthy. Home again. I see.” She offered in a clipped voice.

“Yes, Aunt. I know you could not do without me for so long…Why. You would miss me something terrible.”

Thomas grinned handsomely.

" _Hm_."

She huffed, contradicting his words.

“Missed you?”

She asked harrumphing.

“I barely noticed your leaving to go off bride hunting again in London…”

Thomas’s eyes met Elizabeth’s. _So help him, this old dinosaur would be the death of him one day_ , he was sure of it.

“Charmingly put, Aunt. _As always_...”

Thomas blinked bluntly, speaking lowly.

Ophelia turned her attentions back to Elizabeth.

“He jilted you then? Did he _? Good._ We needed another bride around here. Liven up the place a bit. Heaven knows when he was alone, he’d _mope_ and _sulk_ something _awful_.”

She offered, halfway to _almost_  paying a compliment to Elizabeth. And _definately_ insulting her great nephew. 

“Upon my word. You are a _very_ pretty sort of gel, Mrs K. Very fertile looking. Adequate for carrying babies, I should guess…”

She blathered on.

Edith spluttered into concealed laughter, holding her hand to her mouth. And Iris’s eyes were as wide as could be, like silver frying pans. Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. Closing his eyes, blinking away that thought.

Elizabeth tried not to flush too hard, and nodded demurely.

“I shall endeavor to the very best baby vessel in all of Derbyshire when such a time comes, if just to prove you right. Ma’am…”

Elizabeth offered. Because really, how did one manage to continue sane conversation between two persons, when one of those persons was _entirely_ mentally unhinged?

Clearly this was an instance where fire had to be fought with fire, _so to speak…_

“ _Hm_.”

Came that little bark again.

“If I may ask, Ophelia. Why do you have a teapot under your arm?” Elizabeth asked.

_Thomas groaned._

_Loudly._

 

 _A question one should never be faced with asking…_ He thought.

“ _This_ is my husband.”

Ophelia answered perfectly plainly. Face the utter mask of seriousness.

“Your husband?”

Elizabeth repeated, auburn brows shooting up her forehead, making sure her ears had not deceived her.

“Sir Percival Warren Durrack Ridley Clifford Anthony Thompson Ridgeworthy, the Third. _Earl_ of _Salisbury_ _,_ _you know.”_ She held out loftily, in perfect Queen’s English.

Elizabeth’s mouth gaped wide. And then she watched as Ophelia held the bone chine blue teapot out in front of her, and peeked under the lid. And mumbled under her breath to the ashes within, before snapping the lid shut and facing the woman once more.

“And what’s more. He _doesn’t_ wish to speak _to you_...”

She offered rudely. Nose held high and lofty, snubbing the woman.

For a moment, Elizabeth said nothing. She just blinked. And then, she did something wonderful. Thomas who had his head buried in his hands, and could distinctly feel a migraine coming on. Looked up when he heard Elizabeth speak.

Iris and Edith too were wincing in preparation of the painful meeting, this was Ophelia’s favourite party trick. And she would plague and hassle the recipient of it something awful until she was satisfied that they were pleasant company. She had taken the best part of 15 years in the past, before she had warmed to certain friends of the family. She was indeed, a fury to behold when she did not like someone…

“May I?”

Elizabeth asked loudly. Steeling her bravery and pointing to the teapot. Meeting Ophelia’s eyes strong and proud, before the elder woman could refuse her, her face the perfect picture of shock and confusion. Elizabeth gently took the teapot from Ophelia’s hands. And peered under the lid, opening it right up, and having no reservations about looking down into the dusty grey ash below.

Thomas, Edith and Iris were all staring slack jawed at the bravery of the woman.

“Hello. Your Lordship. You are Sir Percival Ridgeworthy, The Third Earl of Salisbury as I understand? It is a pleasure to meet you, I am Mrs Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, The recently wedded Duchess of Chatsworth, and may I say, it is _so nice_ of you to welcome me to your home, here. At Chatsworth Manor. But I cannot help but be severely disgusted at such a rude and blatantly disrespecting refusal to welcome me to my new home. I do not mind admitting, that as an Earl, I expected _far_ better behavior from you, your Lordship.”

She chided, before she placed the lid back in place. And grinned a lovely smile. Handing the teapot back over to Ophelia. Who took it back into her green gloved hands. Looking as shaken as if she had just seen a ghost.

“He claims that I am a very worthy contestant to be the reigning Duchess. And he congratulates Thomas on his fine choice, and the addition of the library to the east wing, and remarks that he ask to please be left alone for the rest of the day.”

Elizabeth steeled, fighting Ophelia at her own mad game. Proving she was an adversary, indeed, to go against.

They all watched as her pointed, and beaky elderly little face broke into a huge grin.

She patted Elizabeth’s hand. 

“ _Hm_. I _like_ you. New Mrs K. You can stay.”

She beamed, before she turned on her heel, and tottered away just as fast as she had come. And that from Ophelia, was tantamount to sainthood in her eyes.

Elizabeth smiled at all of her three slack jawed relatives who still gawked at her. She smiled, reaching over and gently snapping her husband’s mouth shut. As he stared at her with wide impressed eyes. Unable to comprehend what had just unfolded.

“Any more mad relatives, stashed away in the proverbial attic for me to meet. I am on a winning streak now after all…It’d be a shame to conclude it there...” She beamed.

Thomas blinked, her usually eloquent husband stuttered back his answer.

“Well- n-No.not Really…”

He said. Shaking his head, still flabbergasted, watching his wife smirk.

 

He may have been wrong about Ophelia being the fearsome thing to behold. He vowed he ought to now award that well deserved title to his new Duchess, _instead_.

 

~

 

 


	41. True Marriages, Passion and Speechless Duke's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I warn you now, this is the sinfully good bodice ripping read that I know you've all been waiting so patiently for, and it's also quite long!!! but please enjoy! n  
> I have another little snippet to write to go before this when Elizabeth meets Ophelia and Edith, that'll be up tomorrow! 
> 
> \- Author 
> 
> x

 

 

 

~ The Duke's and Duchesses' Bedroom ~  

(And then the rest...)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth could not name a time when she’d ever had a more highly entertaining meal. Judith, Edith Iris, when combined with their pleasant japing, Thomas’s input, and the absolutely mad antics of Ophelia, and she was left doubled over laughing. And the Dinner was excellent too, what with all the staff members being half in love with her already, or so Thomas claimed, that left her worries to melt away sat at the Kenworthy’s formal dining table. Laughing and smiling away. Well, then there were the other things her husband taunted her with, too, which made the evening just as pleasant. Between the bursts of lively conversation, and the flowing ease of chatter that took turns bouncing from one person to another, in between sips of red wine, and slowly making her way through clearing her plate, Thomas was constantly invading her attention, he was catching her eyes and giving her that hot look which told her, that, in no uncertain terms, when they were alone together, she would be having a very fine time indeed. And his hands were not restless implements either; they found amusement in brushing the upper swell of her thigh through her dress, making her breath skitter and jump through her lips. She nearly sprayed a mouthful of red wine all over her plate when he ‘dropped’ his napkin, and leaned over, swaying into her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his hot breath kissing her skin, that sent sinfully wonderful shivers all through her. It started at her spine, and it seemed to grow and grow, shooting through her like an explosion of shuddering, hot, need. Need that only he could sate. Because no one had ever kissed her like he did. No one’s hands had ever squeezed her close, cupping her body in his arms like his could, and she was ascertain that when they retired to bed, in a mere half an hour, or so, then everything he’d do to her there, too, would be nothing short of being wickedly _glorious._

When her eyes flickered off to the side to find his own, she didn’t find the enchanting blue eyes of her husband anymore. She found the blown sapphire black pupils of a hungry handsome wolf staring back at her. Grinning like he had the salacious secrets of the world at his leisure, and disposal. And he was shooting her that slow, growing, and wide melting smile that made her insides all gooey.

It was hard to refocus back into the norm of conversation when her body felt so hot, and wound up. Her skin flushing and her body feeling, off center, somehow. Like he had whacked something out of balance, and not put it right again. Thomas watched as she tried to smile, and reengage Iris about the splendor of the rose gardens to the east of the grounds. And Thomas watched like a predator as she wet her lips. His groin tightened with arousal when she did that. And he was fighting, sat at that table, trying his best not to let himself become as hard as a ruddy steel flagpole. Because all he could think of, was retiring with his new wife, to bed. He didn’t care if he dragged her up there by the front of her gown. He didn’t care if he ripped the infernal thing off her. Because tonight, she would be his. In every sense of the word. She’d be under him, on top of him if he so chose, she’d be at his mercy, and she’d be purring _his_ name through her moans. That much he did know. Unfortunately, Judith and Edith, Iris and Ophelia were both present, so he had to reign in his desire at the table. Otherwise, he would have sat there, and planned in his head, the order of event’s which he would fulfill upon his wife when he got her upstairs. So far the order was, naked, tease, satisfy, and then sate. He knew one thing though, they had the rest of their lives to take all night in bed, stretching out the pleasure for as long as they could manage. But tonight, he needed relief. He needed it so badly, the insane half of him was questioning why he was sitting here, and chatting idly to his aged Aunt about the tenants on their land, when he could have been upstairs having a bloody fine time between his wife’s naked and magnificently pale thighs.

Mercifully, when Dinner ends. They are allowed to bid their goodnights and slide away. And Thomas sprung out of his seat like a shot, yanking his wife up, by her slim middle. And insisting aloud that he show her what the bedchambers were like, and if she wished to redecorate hers. But tonight she would be in his, and hers would not even get a look in. The late Mr Theodore Kenworthy, and the still reigning Mrs Caroline Kenworthy, his parents, had admired separate bedrooms joined by a door. But he had a delightful feeling they would only ever use the one. And hers would gladly gather dust. But before he could drag his wife away by her sleeve, above stairs. Wilkin’s was as good – but at that moment Thomas thought he was very evil – informed him that he had some urgent papers in his study that needed to be signed and sent on the two penny post by the morning. He had nearly cried when he heard that. His once eager body was aching for his wife, and he had to spare a further ten minutes, when he didn’t even want to waste a second, pushing some papers rather than taking his wife to bed.

Elizabeth had never heard a fully grown man, whimper, in quite such a similar way before. Like a small puppy whom just had its tail stepped on.

Elizabeth had kissed him on the cheek and then informed him she could find her own way up, and that she’d see him shortly. He had watched her saunter away, Judith’s hand in her own, and Edith and Iris following, with Ophelia in tow, heading towards the family’s quarters. And he had wanted to whine at that too, watching her walk away from him.

And then, after he saw them move out of sight, and heard their voices disappear up the grand staircase, he wasted no time in bolting through his home, skidding into the doorway of his office, his shoulder bashing painfully into the wood, his arm bursting into galaxies of pain, but he did not care. He scattered through the frame and rustled about in the dark at the large mound of papers on his cluttered desk. It had been left piled up and unattended in his absence, and he knew he’d have to attend to it at some point, and from the bleeding light streaming in from the hallway, he eventually found the papers that Wilkin’s had spoken of, rifling through the stack of things like a man possessed, his hair flopping into his eyes, which he pushed out of his way as his fingers scrambled madly through.

He then reached for his ink pen, and declared that he had never signed fourteen documents so fast in all his life, his signature no more than a squiggled line. And then when he was finished he messily bunched up the papers in his hand and then skirted around his desk, sprinting out into the hallway, again, his smooth soled boots didn’t take much purchase on the tiled floors, he ran through the house, slammed the papers onto the large round table, again, skidding to an ungraceful stop, he placed them where he knew that The butler would be able to find them in the morning. And then, he carried on running. Through the corridors, up several flights of stairs, and down more hallways navigating to his room, uncaring if he skidded into the walls, or bashed into some elegant painting as he clumsily hurried passed it. At some point, breathless, a little bit sweaty and exerted from bounding up a long staircase, he realized that he’d gladly run to Timbuktu if the promise of making love to his wife, Elizabeth, was his reward at the end of such an achievement…

 

~

 

Elizabeth, however, was in the complete opposite state of her husband. She was calm, a little nervous, perhaps, her stomach feeling no more than a bottomless pit of niggling discomfort. But other than that, she felt remarkably happy. Her new family were a wonderfully, eccentric, but lively and lovely bunch of people whom she was already half in love with. Judith was a little bundle of joy, Iris was such gentle and always pleasant company, and Elizabeth could not wait to grow better friends with such a lovely and kind woman. Ophelia, was, well. What could one say? She was as entertaining as she was elderly. (Which was a lot) and Edith, whom she thought was perhaps the most intelligent and demure ten and six year old in all of England, and she was very much looking forwards to helping index her feeble collection of books into Edith’s carefully pruned library tomorrow. As such, she was not sure how long Thomas would be with his business assignment, so, she had kindly asked for her new ladies maid, Elsie, of whom she had met earlier in the kitchens when she was helping Wilkin’s cease with his sneezing. When the housemaids, cooks, and other staff saw the Butler glided into the room – still afflicted with a sneezing fit – on the new Duchesses arm, all of their eyes blew so wide and they could not shut their wide open mouths, nor staring, for all there was dear to them in all of the British Isles. As it was, she had to explain the situation quickly, assisting Wilkin’s after the remedy was fetched, and she then introduced herself in turn. And was told, by a now recovered and muffled voice of Wilkin’s who clutched the cure of a peppermint oil soaked handkerchief held over his nose and mouth, that Elsie, the waify and brown haired maid whom she introduced to herself first, would attend to her, to whatever she found herself in need of. Elsie had bobbed a curtsey as she smiled at her remarkably lovely new Mistress, as Elizabeth truly put her at ease by exclaiming;

“Oh, you needn’t curtsey to me, Elsie, I’ve only been a Duchess for about two days, I do not feel that as yet, requires a curtsey. But I am delighted to meet you, thank goodness, for my ladies maid back home in London had grown so used to her station. She could say absolutely awful things, in such honesty, she knew I adored her and could never do without her…” Elizabeth smiled.

“Like what Miss? If I may beg your pardon for asking…” She spoke, Elizabeth knew now she definitely had the traces of a country accent to her polite voice.

“One of my favored gowns, my powder blue silk, which I used to ask her to lace me into, she used to say. _‘No. heavens. Not that gown, Elizabeth, you twit, makes your ankles look like a shire horses fetlocks…“_ Elizabeth smiled.

She watched as Elsie snorted into laughter, as did her new Duchess. The housemaid tried to cover her laughing with her hand over her mouth, as the rest of the staff laughed around them.

“You should never feel the need to beg my pardon, Elsie…” Elizabeth demanded, laying her hand upon the maids own. “…And I promise you, that I will be the most definitely be the meekest mistress you’ve ever had to serve. I do not like ordering people around. I’d much rather prefer to have friends, than servants. So, please do not think of me as a new demanding Duchess, I am just a new and ordinary friend.” She spoke humbly.

Elsie looked like she was ready to weep tears of happiness.

“Yes, My Lady.” She smiled. “I am very pleased to have such an amiable, _friend_ , to attend to…” Elsie beamed.

Elizabeth smiled, squeezing her hand tight, before she was moved on to meet more members of staff. There were around 30 in total. And that was not including Gardeners, and people who attended to the mews out back, as footmen, drivers or stable attendants. She had a lot of names to remember now, and she would be only too happy to be in their home to learn of them all. And grow to know them all, warmly.

So, Elsie had just scurried out, wishing to be out of the Duke’s bedchamber before the gentleman came back. Word has it from the maids who served up dinner to the family, there had been loving intent in the Duke’s eyes as he sat next to his wife. So naturally, after Elsie had gladly helped Elizabeth unlace her gown, she had scattered from the room quickly, after wishing her a good evening. Elizabeth had smiled and shook her head. Sitting down at her husband’s vanity table and mirror, having just dressed down into her green gown, tied tight about her waist, and having washed and dried her face with lavender soap. She had bathed earlier, before dinner and changing into a new gown, of unpretentious sapphire blue silk. With little skirts and little fuss to it, to go and take dinner with her new family. She allowed her body to relax a little out of the confines of the corset which she had been imprisoned in all day. Her hands had just taken out the last pin, letting her hair tumble down her back, before she began brushing it, gliding the silver hairbrush she had been gifted with from Araminta, who told her to ‘ _brush her hair while she waited_ ’ slowly raking it through her thick hair as her stomach fidgeted with impatience, and she waited, a little unsteadily, for her husband’s return. She took deep breaths in through her mouth and out through her nose. Assuring herself as she watched her reflection in the mirror, that she would be fine. Thomas was her entire world, and whatever unfolded here, tonight, in their marital bed, he had already promised her, she would be given a fine time from her husband…

She bit her lip. Closing her eyes, and letting a deep breath escape from her lungs, soothing her. And when she heard booted feet come to the creaking floors outside their room, her eyes snapped open as she heard her husband slowly push open the grand gilded bedroom door on the far side of the room.

Her eyes found him instantly, and when he saw her, his stomach clenched tight, and all the tension from wanting her fled from his body. She had her back to him, so he could see the shapely outline of her back to him, as he entered. He could see the undeniably lovely and mouth watering sight of her lovely hourglass shaped torso, swathed in the same emerald green gown she wore the night last. Tied tight about her waist, in perfect contrast to the flame of her red hair running down her back, caught in the firelight. He thought his desire for this beautiful woman would make him an animal, that he would grab her, haul her to the bed and claim her without the courtesy of even undressing entirely. But, instead, it had the complete opposite effect on him. She calmed him down. Of course, lust was still simmering under the façade of his calm demeanor. He let his body lean back into the door, shutting it after him. His hand was gentle and carefully slow in the way he twisted the key shut in the lock. He didn’t want her to feel trapped here, by him. She had already been locked in a room alone with one lunatic of a man, he was sure she didn’t need a repeat of the experience. The tension and silence in the room between them, so thick and hot a knife wouldn’t have been enough to cut it. They could both hear nothing but the crackle and spit of the fire in the huge white fireplace just across from her, keeping the room hot. Thomas didn’t stop, until he was right at her side

His wife’s eyes found his again, and she smiled, turning about on the stool, placing her silver hair brush down, and facing him in person.

“Have you concluded the complications with your business papers?” She asked in a gentle voice. Trying not to sound as nervous as she felt.

He smiled as he stopped, stood close to her, his fingers unable not to toy with a beautiful long curl of red hair, she smiled into his touch.

“Yes, it is all settled.”

He spoke back gently, tucking hair back behind her ear. Elizabeth nearly went weak at the burning and blistering look in his eyes. It made her mouth dry and her body flip in the nervous realization that her heart was beating so loud, it was a wonder that he could not hear it. She looked up then, and realized how disheveled her husband looked, his once neatly tied cravat had been tugged loose, to flop down his chest. And where the small gap of his shirt gaped open at the top of his chest, she could see a slight sheen of sweat decorate his front, aswell as having it sheening slightly on his brow. His blue eyes bright and wild from scattering through the house so quick to get back to her as fast as he was able to.

She swallowed, wetting her lips. Unsure of what to say, or do, next.

But his hand skimmed down and found the soft silk of her cheek, and she smiled, blushing into his touch.

“You are cold, my love…”

He pointed out, frowning lightly. This room was stifling, how could she even have a chance to grow cold, and he could not have that. He looked to the fire to see it lagging a little, so he crossed to tend to it. Smiling warmly at her, before he went over, crouched, and stoked it, turning over the amber ashes, and throwing on a couple more logs to get it roaring and provide more heat.

Elizabeth watched her husband cross the room, to the fire that lay in the huge gilded white fireplace, just by the side of their bed. She then decided all that she needed to make their marriage a true one, was twenty seconds of mad bravery to bolster her courage. She stood, and steeled her nerves. And whilst his back was to her, her hands reached for the bow of her gown, her honeymoon peignoir she had chosen, and slid it open. She spoke his name gently, calling to him, just as she let the green silk gown, slip from her shoulders and pool, forgotten, to the rug by her feet.

“Thomas?”

He heard her softly call his name, he straightened up into a stand from where he had been crouched. And then he turned.

When his eyes focused on what she was wearing. All his breath left him in one gasping rush. The only movement from him, for a few seconds, came from the way his flaming blue eyes slid all over her, examining her lovingly.

She had been right in her earlier predictions of him loving what gown she would model for him, his mouth was hinged open, and he would not put it past him at any moment to start drooling at the sight. The gown she had promised to excite him with, consisted of two panels of silk, simply held together by the very thin ties at her shoulders, which were tied into a very easily un-doable bow, he fancied, and it was synched tight at her waist, and apart from that, not much else of it covered her up. The neckline plunged down her chest in a ‘V’ shape to allow him to see the side by side shadow of the swell of her pale breasts, and where the gown came to her hips, it fell away, cutting from the hip to open out. Showing him the flare of each upper thigh as she stood. And the way it shimmered in the amber light as the only glow of light in the room, led him to know it was made of silk, and also him knowing that it made her look like heaven, to his eyes. Never mind the likes of pearly gates in the clouds, _this, this was **his** heaven._

Elizabeth swallowed nervously, taking a deep fortifying breath as she stood there, watching him suffer plainly in arousal for what she had on. She wet her lips again before she spoke.

“It’s a part of my bridal trosseau. I hope you... That is to say, I hope it meets with your satisfaction?”

She asked, fidgeting nervously on the spot in sheepishness as his eyes raked over everything she was offering up to him.

Thomas had never seen her quite so naked. And judging by the way his skin had heated up by ten or more degrees, he wasn’t sure the thoughts that ran through his head were safe to disclose, otherwise he would intimidate her. He didn’t move, and he didn’t speak for a few long seconds. So she decided to.

“Thomas, _do you_ , still, _want me?_ ” She dared to ask in a hot whisper.

Then his eyes snapped to meet hers, and she saw dark lust burning away in the blue depths. She took a step back, he looked positively dangerous. And she didn’t think she had ever seen him contradict her words so harshly before.

For a moment, _nothing_ happened. And then, _everything_ did.

One minute, she had been standing, and alone on the far side of the room to him. But then, he came at her with a force that knocked the very breath clean from her lungs. One minute, she was standing alone, and then, she was enclosed in the heaven tailored only for her, in his arms. His lips clashed onto her own before she could have a chance to register the fact that he had raced across the room, and the kiss that he gave her was, in _no way_ , gentle. It was deep, dark and in a way that made her insides incinerate. Her blood firing like it _never had_ before. His hands cupped the back of her head, grasping her hair, to twine through her fingers to pull her head to his, _hard_. He had never kissed her like this before, _Oh_ , he had kissed her before, _certainly_. Out of passion, or out of a certain degree of need which he had to conceal the entirety of for fear he’d lose control and claim her wherever they happened to be. But this kiss, this kiss was nothing but a real kiss. He was kissing her with his whole body. With the way his lips tugged breath right from her body, it was also in the way his hands found the creamy pale skin of her thigh, bared so prettily by the slit in her gown, and he hugged both her warm curvy thighs up to wrap about his waist. Hauling her into him, still kissing her solidly on the mouth, and with one hand still cradling her head, the other forcing her right thigh to curl over his hip as he stood. And true to the amount of passion he unleashed on her, it took her brain a second to realize that she wasn’t even touching the floor anymore. But had in fact, coaxed both her thighs to wrap about his waist. One hand sliding naughtily down the side of her fleshy thigh to cup her ass in his hand, shuddering a moan against her mouth. Into her lips, before he pulled away, and rested his forehead against her own, panting heavily onto her kiss stained lips, as she was onto his. Their chests heaving, and the both of them knowing that their passion was a long way from being sated. Because he had in mind so many things to do to her first to make her tremble and moan his name. And finally. _Finally._ He could do all of the things to her that he had been dreaming of _for weeks…_

“Elizabeth Kenworthy. There are a lot of things in this world, which I do not want. France to invade England. For example. Or for another outbreak of bubonic plague. But _you_ , my dear, will never, _ever, EVER_ , be included on a list of things I don’t want.”

He spoke plainly, growling in lust at her, nearly angry, his voice a rasp of the deep desirous growl it once had been. His lips moving immediately thereafter to nuzzle into her throat, nuzzling, kissing and pressing tender deep long kisses into her throat in a way that left her shuddering. A gasp was her answer.

“Thomas. I want you. I want you, too.” She manages to exhale.

“You’ve _got me,_ Elizabeth, _my god_ , how you’ve _got me…”_

He huffs against her ear as his teeth and tongue toy with her there to make her curl up, latching onto him for fear she’d fall away off the face of the earth. His hand that once had her thigh, came up to cradle the back of her neck as his other held her tight across her lower back. Pressing every one of her delightful curves into him.

Before she could know that he had moved the entwined form of them both, she felt her back hit the quilts of the well-made bed, as she was hauled there, and kept pressed there, under the hard hot body of her husband as he molded his lips onto her own again. Her red hair flattened out below her, and her hands coming up to grasp onto his thin cotton shirt. Trying to tear it off his shoulders. Which, she wasn’t having much luck with, seeing as his buttoned waistcoat kept it firmly held in place on his torso. He however, was granted with far better luck, as his hands found the tightly tied bows which kept the dress clinging onto her shoulders, and ripped them open. He swore blind he heard some stitching rip, but he didn’t give a damn about that. He just wanted the lovely thing off her before he damn near went mad for want of seeing her unclothed, pinned under him. Because he knew she was all pale and ivory skinned, but he wanted to glide her body under his palms, feeling her silky skin, the beautiful curves of hers that he had been longing for. He wanted to see where he knew she was not pale. Namely in place of those rosy pink peaks of her nipples. _She was most certainly not pale there,_ he thought with a smirk. He wanted to see her laid bare and naked all for him, and him alone. He wanted to kiss all over those full heavy breasts, and nuzzle into the warm swell of her rounded thighs. Elizabeth broke away from his kiss, groaning as she felt his fingers skim down over her, now bare shoulders, dragging his fingers down her arms, then tucking to her sides, to glide along her silky clad stomach.

She groaned, loudly, as his lips lowered down, his hair brushing against her forehead as he kissed her hard on the lips, just long enough to make her arch up into him for more, for more of his melting hot lips that made her buck up to him, greedy for more of the sensation his kisses caused. He grinned as she followed him up before their lips parted, her head leaning up with him to snag every last second of the kiss that she could, before he smiled down at her through an exhaled breath. With a smile that was all wolf, and lustful intentions to match, his fingers found the front of her loosened gown and tugged, so the straps slid off her shoulders, and she watched, eyes magnetized, glued to his as he smiled down on her, slowly revealing more and more of her bare chest as she swallowed, one arm up over her head as her chest heaved in nervousness, her eyes a little unease, and her bottom lip between her teeth. Thomas could practically sense her quivering under him in anxiousness of what was to come. He eased her fears as he granted her what she so wantonly pursued a moment ago, he leaned up over her, and pressed hi slips across hers again, in a kiss so wicked that he should have warned her of its evils. And then, when he left her aching just so, he pulled away again, and his hot mouth found her ear, kissing it, his tongue toying playfully with the shell of it after he spoke, doing something unknown there that made her body thrash and hum with delight so potent, she became amazed he could not hear it sweeping through her.

“I promised you, did I not, that I will not do anything to you, which does not meet with utter satisfaction and pleasure on your end, darling...” He purred prettily into her ear.

She nodded, swallowing, unsure of where this was headed. She was led with her top half, down to the very top of her ribcage, with her breasts fully exposed to his hungry eyes.

“You just looked…. So…” She gasped, unable to finish the thought as his lips nipped along her shoulder, making her groan and flutter her eyes closed, instead of finding her words.

“So?”

He asked from somewhere near her collarbone, urging her on, as his lips tickling fluttering smacks of kisses along her pale lavender scented skin. He could have just pictured her earlier, lathering fragrant soap all over her bare, wet, skin, in the bath she had before dinner, her sudsy hands running all along her body, just like his would be able to do to her before the night was out.

“So. _So_ … I _can’t_ describe it…” She burst out, mouth open in a wordless cry of pleasure as spare hand slid up her thigh, the other keeping his body braced above her.

“You looked like you wanted to _devour_ … _me_ …”

She managed to cry finally, as his lips slid down, coming closer to the valley between her breasts. Loving how the rosy peaks of them were stiff with the desire he was kissing onto her. He smirked at that. Before his eyes met her own, seeing hers were wide and dark blue, a darker shade than the ice blue they had once been before he kissed her, and hauled her onto the bed under him.

“What a happy concurrence, dear wife, because to the very best of my abilities _, I intend to_.”

He rasped, before his mouth slid forwards and captured one of her breasts in between the hot wet chasm of his lips. Sucking hard.

The reaction he got from her, was just, _delightful_. She arched her back and her hands clawed into his shirt, so hard, he fancied that her fingers may have ripped holes through his clothes. But he didn’t care about that. His tongue toyed, and lapped, and swirled about the aroused peak of her bosom. Forcing her to cry out, gasp and groan all in one. Never mind just her hips brushing into his, her entire body curled up into his own at the pleasure he caused. As he warned her he would. She couldn’t even gasp his name. All she could do was pant, and savor the sensationally erotic sight of her husband kissing his way now, around the soft yet puckered hard center of her breast, having released it from the sinful torture of his mouth. Kissing down to the middle of her ribs, hearing her heart _‘thud’_ hard under her skin, racing blood and desire around her body, pressing a kiss flat to her chest where the skin lay above it. She could only repeat her groans as he did the same thing to the opposite breast, her reaction perhaps a little less, put the desire in inspired in her body was no less potent, her hand still fisted into his shirt, the other sunk into his dark hair this time. The wet lash of his velvet tongue against her nipple, made her wonder why, when he focused his attentions on one certain point, why she felt it rush through _all_ of her body, not just where he now paid attention to her. Her eyes turned back, rolling towards the ceiling as her husband’s ministrations continued. Her head thrown back far as she successfully now managed to moan his name.

“Do you believe me yet, darling? Have I soothed your worries?”

He asked, smiling like the devil, seeing her shakily nod a smile to him, his breath burning hot against her ribs as he kissed lower and lower down, stopping at her stomach. Only when she felt a slight chill from the absence of his body pining down her hips, did she look forwards, to better understand that he had pulled himself up and off her, to furiously rip open the buttons of his waistcoat, seeing that one layer disappeared, and he now hand just his shirt, breeches and boots left on. Elizabeth clawed madly at his shoulders like an angered cat, trying her level best to pull his braces down, snapping them off his shoulders to flop loosely at his sides, looping down as her hands snuck under the gaping collar of his shirt, her hand rubbing along his hot skin, feeling the hard, solid firm of muscle underneath the pale veneer of his flesh, that she delighted in thinking _all_ of such _belonged to her,_ now. _He was her husband after all._ Her eagerness to see him bare didn’t cease. And it didn’t cease until he sat up, and threw his boots off his feet, uncaring where abouts in the room they landed, he just needed them off. And then, when he twisted back up an around to his wife, she met him halfway, throwing her body into his arms as she sat up, her hand cradling his neck, as she tried to kiss him with as much passion as he often kissed her with. And as it turns out, he could see he was training his wife well, her own kiss left, _him_ , now _melting_ to her when she pulled back. _A monster of his own creation,_ he thought in good humour. He chuckled against her lips, her smiling too, as her fingers found the back of his shirt, and helped pull it up and off him. Seeing the ivory expanse of his bare chest finally come into view as she threw his shirt away, and he brought his arms down. She had never seen a naked man before, and found herself staring, rather inelegantly, down at the heaving chest of her husband. He was lean, she knew, and nothing of seeing little glimpses of skin at his neck, or in the little ‘V’ shape that led down from his shirts when he pulled off his cravat. This was different, she had never seen _so much_ of him before. She was mesmerized by the hard slabs of muscle tugging and pulling to and fro as she watched him pant. She tentatively reached forwards and gently touched her fingertips to the spot just above where his heart lay just to his left of his chest. He could not hide the way his muscles jumped and tensed the second her curious fingers grazed his skin. And his hand came up to meet hers. He knelt there, looking so thoroughly in love with her, one knee bent under him, the other dangling off the side of the bed, touching to the floor, still clad in his black breeches, with the braces she yanked off looping down by his hips.

“You always say that I’m beautiful…” Elizabeth mumbled, swallowing.

“Please, allow me to assure you, that you are too.”

She spoke softly, dark blue near black eyes desiring for his love, and her red hair wildly tangled and mussed, one large section of it thrown forwards, curling down her shoulder and resting gently, nearly covering her bare breast, in a way that he thought made her look as ethereally beautiful as a Frederick Leighton painting that she so loved. Her lips were air starved from his kiss, and her lovely mouth was smiling so perfectly across to him, that it made him _ache_.

He’d had enough of not touching her, he crawled forwards and braced his now naked chest over hers, feeling the so thoroughly arousing sensation of her puckered stiff nipples brushing against his chest, pressing her body back to sink into the pillows behind her head, nuzzling his lips into her own, starting to kiss her madly, and encouraging her hands to loop up across the back of his neck, as he buried his face down into her body again. Kissing down over her cheeks, across her throat, down the middle of her chest, going further and further down, encouraging the now useless green nightdress, down and over her hips in an endless rush of silk gliding over her, like the world’s longest kiss. She arches her hips, and watched as he lovingly guided the slip of green silk, down over her hips, off her ass, down past her knees, his hands smoothing her smooth skinned pale calves as he went, brushing her ankles and her toes as he whipped the thing down and off her feet. Throwing it behind him, to mushroom into a pool of green silk, billowing away as it glided to the ground. Forgotten.

Thomas had to take a moment to fully savor the sight of his now _utterly naked_ wife.

His eyes skimmed down over every beautiful bare inch of her, he knew he loved her from the tip of her auburny head, to the very tips of every one of her toes. But of all the fine things he had seen in his life, the sight of her like this, knocked all those other things out of whack, and moved her right into first place. She was a _goddess_. She was not a wispy inconsequential little slip of a woman, she strode with passion and purpose through her life, and her body thoroughly supported this fact. She was not easily ignorable, she was full figured, and she was _wonderful_. He wants to bury his face in the crease of where her thigh met her hip, and he wanted to kiss and kiss endlessly down over the curve that led from her waist to her hip. He wanted to squeeze her wonderfully warm and full thighs in his large hands, and cup her close and keep her sighing and moaning his name, and _never_ letting her go. _Ever_.

“You’re so magnificent. Elizabeth. Every _inch_ of you. Beautiful, perfect, heavenly…”

He sighed, rattling off a list, leaning down to place wide butterfly kisses against the elegant curve of her hipbones after each word. Nuzzling his face down into her skin, very close to her abdomen in a way that made her clench, and thread her fingers through his hair, raking her fingers through in a way that made him groan and hiss a smile into the swell of her stomach, biting his lip, before he continued further down. She was temptation, beauty and sensuality personified, led beneath him. And what was better? _She was all his._

“I want to make you feel _wonderful_ , my darling, will you let me do that for you?”

He whispers, asking as he stroked his lips into a delicate kiss just above her belly button, looking up, he saw her nod her consent. Shakily, watching him lovingly taking pleasure and delight in her form as he kissed lower. No one, not even her, loved her body more than he did. He was worshipping it, and her. With his words and touch both. His hands dipped lower than his lips, skimming down the fronts of her full rounded thighs that he wanted to bury himself in. His large smooth and very warm, male hands tucked themselves to rest at the back of her thighs, and in one gentle push, he ever so kindly parted her legs, pressing his body gently down between her legs, his hands stroking and squeezing up the backs of her thighs, before he encouraged her legs further apart. Spreading them wider, and wider until he was satisfied they were dropped open far enough for his liking. And he then smirked with nothing but desire as he gazed down at the lovely center of her womanhood. Gently, so as not to startle her, he errantly stroked one finger to brush against the hard little pearl of wet flesh at the very apex of her thighs, which made her buck like never before. And he found, with delight, hence as to why he smirked, that she was just as aroused as he was, judging by the lust that was eagerly now sliding wetly down her thighs. She felt so good like this, all warm, wet and womanly against him. He had never felt more male.

“Oh lord Elizabeth...”

He groaned, shuddering out a growling moan.

“You _do want_ me…”

He teased, circling his finger slowly to flutter in and out of her, brushing against that special spot that made her grind her hips down onto his hands, and scrabble furiously to grab and fist the bed sheets between her fingers.

She couldn’t help but let her fingers slide and latch into his inky long hair, scraping gently across his scalp in that way he so liked.

“Were you ever under any illusions that I didn’t?”

She answered with a gasping moan, arching up her back when he dipped inside her once more. He chuckled, even when he was about to passionately lay claim her body, her wit ensured she still had something to retort right back at him with.

He chuckled, before he indulged in the true intent of why he was down there between her thighs in the first place. Not that she knew what his true intent was, which was made plain as the light of day when he lunged forwards and kissed _right there_ , as the very heart of _her_. His hands spread open across her thighs to hold her in place, open and vulnerable to his erotic invasion, making love to her with his lips and his tongue combined. He sighed a heavy lusting and wanton growl into her when his tongue met with her swollen wet folds, because what he remarked upon that far off day in the Farrow’s library was indeed, still evidently true. _She did taste like heaven_.

She doesn’t know how many times her stomach did fancy somersaults in her body, nor could she keep track of how hard her hands clung onto various things around her. Be it the bed sheets, his hair, or the skin of his shoulders and his upper arms. But he knows there was something sensationally erotic and appealing in the way she tugged hard on his hair, especially because it led him to clamp his lips down, sucking hard on the full swollen lips right by her center, making her scream his name loud. Drinking in everything she was giving him, swirling his tongue in ways that left her unable to draw breath. His fingers raked and smoothed down her thigh as he felt her legs start to shake, but still he did not cease in the way he was ‘devouring’ her. He sucked, kissed and he nibbled and tickled until he was able to look up, and see his wife writhe about under his grip, eyes shut, hair knotted, her body sheened with sweat from the muggy heat of the room, and the cloud of heat their lovemaking was causing. He could smell the definable scent of lust muddy the air about them both. He could also feel his own brow and chest much in the same condition as that of his wife, perspiring, hence why when her hand scrabbled to find purchase on his shoulder, it didn’t meet with much success, as it skidded right down and off him due to how slippery his skin had become. He could tell that her pleasure now was becoming to a particularly potent completion, as her moans were increasing, and her body bucked harder and harder against his absolute erotic authority. But still his grip and actions did not relent, his tongue swept in arches and circles all over her, pushing up against the little nub of nerves that meant she climaxed in a hard cry, her hands fisted hard in his hair, tugging forwards so he smiled a moan up at her, his blue eyes staring intently up at him as she shuddered and convulsed in pleasure, shattering into completion above him because of his talented tongue and his clever lips.

He smirked up watching his beautiful wife sink back down from heaven, panting his name in pleasure, eyes closed and her chest rapid and sharply heaving breath. Trying to regain her breath. Which, as it appears, she was unable to do. He licked his lips, seeing that the wet lust that coated her thighs, was twice as such now, because of his attentions. He could only presume to guess she would feel like absolute heaven when he sunk deep into her. She would be warm, wet, soft and she would fit perfectly about him as if they were made for each other. He watched her still, licking his lips, savoring the heavenly taste of her slicked all over his mouth. The flavour of her lust still on his tongue, as, possibly now his favourite delicacy to feast on. Ever.

“Thomas… _Oh_ , what did you _do_ to me?”

She gasped, opening her eyes, and watching as he slunk up across her naked body with all the feline grace of a preying, dark eyed panther. Crawling up to cover her naked body with his partially clothed one. She welcomed him with a gentle moan into his mouth, whimpering into him as he cradled her naked body with renewed lust, wrapping her thighs about him, and tipping her to pull into his chest as he cradled her on her side, stealing his hands down to stroke over the curve of her delectable bottom, stroking up her bare back, caressing her shoulder blades and squeezing her tight to him, his arms coming to wrap about her back as his lips molded onto her own, letting her see how _painfully_ ardently he needed her now. She could feel with intimidating power, the way his hips pressed the long, _hard_ , length of him into her hip. And he gasps, loudly and so forcefully, that after her hand reached down to stroke over him, she whips her hand away when he groans loud at her touching him, she pulled back like she had acidentally burned him. The way he reacted was as if she had hurt him. He threw his head back to the pillows below him, eyes shut as breath pounded through his chest. Elizabeth watched him with her mouth agape. She reached out to gently press her hand to his chest, she knew that much couldn’t hurt him.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you, I-I believe me, I never meant to—“

She rambled in a panic. But his chuckling shut her up for good as he caught her hand, reclining back on the pillows , heaving his head up to see her knelt, both knees tucked below her as she leant over him, her hands still touching to his tummy as he wound his fingers through her own, looking up at her through amused, yet still lusting eyes.

“Elizabeth. It was not a groan of _pain...”_

He rasped In a truly lustful voice that made her melt a little when he coupled the words with his wickedly handsome melting smile.

“But…”

She began, her eyes flicking down to once more find the impressive looking tent that was forming at the front of his breeches. And the way she examined him with such innocence, yet lust in her look made him want to grab and claim her right there. Gently, she swallowed, her hand reaching out again, and with a slightly trembling hand, she brushed three gentle fingertips across the rising swell of his body. She watched as he groaned again, his head dropping back to the pillow, eyes shut, mouth gaped as she delighted in seeing the handsome stretch of his neck leant back, and the pale curve of his Adams apple bob as he swallowed, mouth wide as he finished groaning gutturally. His chest leapt when she touched him, like he had to fight his hips not to lurch forwards into her hands.

“Oh, my sweet thing, you do that much more, I can’t promise I will be gentle and attentive with you…”

He growls lowly, in a warning, his smile and eyes all wolf as he glared lovingly at her.

“What if I don’t want you to be gentle.”

She whispered back with a small smile, and if that wasn’t his queue, then he didn’t know what was. Because passion was something that should never be gentle. The very meaning of passion was that it was urgent and not ignorable, when it swelled inside of you, you’d do anything, as quickly as was possible, to sate it.

“ _Oh._ You’ve asked _for it now_ , Lady Kenworthy…”

He growled in a wanting promise against her mouth as he pressed her down to the bed, his mouth taking a short second to slide down and suck quickly on her rosy nipple once more.

He was on her in an instant, rolling her onto her back, tumbling them both to the bed once more, without him even having to try, he slid his body between her legs again, and this time, she welcomed him there without hesitation, he propped himself between her thighs as they dropped open so wide for him, both their hands working furiously to try and shimmy his breeches down and off his legs, so they could both be gloriously naked together, finally. Her hands slid down to the soft flesh of his behind as he managed to shove the infernal tight things down to his knees, wrenching his knees out, sharply tugging until they too fell away, and they were pressed, hard, hot and needing, into one another perfectly naked. Rolling around in the nest of warmed bed sheets that their passions had caused, Elizabeth could not ignore how his hardness rubbed teasingly up against her swollen wet folds, and she needed something, she was sure, she needed to be touched, she needed to be made….something, but she was not sure what. But judging by the smirk on his face, and the way she blanched of all little colour she had when she lay her eyes on the full unhindered very large view of his, _manhood_ , she almost became certain that their lovemaking could not work, surely, he would not be able to _…. All that......i_ _nside her……_. But then again, judging by the way she felt like she was weeping for it, it left her not caring if it tore her open. Thomas sensed her hesitance in the way her eyes seemed to stare at him for a very long moment, like she had seen a mythological creature.

“Elizabeth…”

He murmured, making her eyes flicker up to find his.

“I don’t want to hurt you, not now, not ever, but in a moment, I might, and what’s worse, is that I might do it without meaning too, my sweet girl…”

He offered perfectly seriously, though his eyes were still hot and burning for her. He took her face in his hand, loving how a curl of red hair tangled down in the way of her eyes.

Elizabeth leaned up and pressed her lips firmly onto his, kissing him hard, sliding her hands down into his hair, knowing that nothing this man could do, would ever hurt her. Not in the slightest.

“You won’t…”

She mumbled against his lips in assurance of his promise, before he leaned down and pinned her under him again. Kissing her as if tomorrow would never come. The wonderful sensation of their naked bodies pressed in such close contact was intoxicating. They lay there, completely absorbed in the other person, grabbing handfuls of skin wherever they could, namely with his large hands cupping across her back, squeezing her thighs and her bottom close onto him, one of his hands encouraging her thighs wider so he could better curl up into her and nestled his body further into her own. There was not a hairs breadth away between them to spare. Their bodies glistened and slid onto one another’s, as Elizabeth’s hand scrambled to dig into his back, the other pressed down his muscular side, curling her fingers into his lower back, trying to bring them closer together. If that was even possible. All they knew was that they needed more of this, more heat, more passion, more of everything. He needed all of her, and she of him. And they could do nothing more but savor their kissing and grabbing one another for me, because it was, in one word, _paradise_ , to them both. And it was hot, it was needy and it was sweaty and so arousing it was nearly painful, but they are busy learning that there is no sweeter way to burn, than to burn in _passion_.

When they pulled away, it was all he could do to drag his eyes up to meet her own, and to silently ask her with the intentful and burning intense look on his face, ‘ _are you ready, my love?’_ And as she knew him better, than perhaps even herself, she nodded, swallowing and panting as she looked up into his eyes, able to read his plea. That burning need that was gnawing away at her gut, must’ve been the same which plagued him too. For he looked just as aroused and stimulated as she did. She let out a frustrated cry as he gently eased just a small part of himself inside her, eyes flickering up to find he as he looked down, his long dark hair tangling in his eyes, as he tried not to pant ferally and surge forwards into her all in one swift plunge, and one nudge of his hips, that would definitely hurt her if he did that. She cried out, he wasn’t sure if it was in frustration, or in pain. And as he could barely hear anything but his own blood rushing past his ears, he is nearly certain that it may have been his name, but he isn’t all entirely certain, he could hear his heart beating so loud, leaping in his chest, that he was surprised she didn’t comment on it. But then he _couldn’t_ go slowly anymore, he _had_ to move, and so he did. He surged forwards, surely and cautiously, sheathing himself all the way inside her to the hilt, breaking past the barrier of her maidenhood, hearing her gasp at that, and tears spring down her cheeks at the sudden sensation of it all, their bodies slap together, joined as one, at last, as she curled up into him, her hand hooking painfully into his shoulder not that he minded, as one of his hands kept his body leant above her, and he tracked away the tear that caught the firelight in its glistening clarity. Wiping it away and peppering her cheeks with kisses.

“Did I, hurt you.”

He panted, choking through his words, it was like a dagger to the heart to know he had caused her pain.

“Elizabeth, I’m sorry, I can’t...be…”

He struggled. Watching as she opened her blue eyes and stared up at him, his lips were so close to hers, they could have kissed, but instead, she spoke.

“Thomas.Don’t.Stop.”

She whispered hotly in an order against his mouth. And then he feels it, she clenches around him, squeezing pleasure out of him, In a way that makes him surge forwards, grunting, one hand slamming to the headboard behind her head as he moans gutturally like a wolf, his veins popping from his skin, muscles straining, Elizabeth could not deny how feral and untamed he looked like this. One vicious drive from his hips, cause her to buck up the bed, as his hips urgently and wantonly start building up a medium paced primitive rhythm, fuelled by both their own urgent needs. His hands link up one of her legs to cross up over his hip, holding it there as he gathered more momentum to truly drive and plunge himself in and out of her body in ways that left them both groaning and panting as their sweat drenched bodies rode into the other, occasionally, his hand would reach down and skim gently over her breast as he kissed her neck, or his hand would be even more wicked, sliding a little further south and toying with the bundle of nerves which lay at the very heart of her again. But he slowly drove his hips into her, surging his body to cover her own, and give her such pleasure it would leave her mad out of her brain when she did shatter into her own climax. Because he’d be damned if he let himself take his pleasure in her first. She would finish first, even if it ended up killing him. His arms then slid down to find her hand, his other one still bracing him up, and his other tangling and twining her fingers through her own.

She was hungry for this, perhaps as even hungry as he was, and that only served to inflame his desire all the more. He could feel himself grow closer because of that thought, so close he was liable to perish of desire and lurch into the inescapable clutch of his climax at any second. She started to move her hips along with his own, bucking and rolling up into him to try and find a pleasing position under him, to help and try and get her body in sync with his brutal rhythm, seeing this made him smile, and mold his lips down onto her own to claim her mouth as all his, just as he was busy claiming her body in the same all entirety and absolute branding way he was claiming her lips in his sinfully skilled kiss. He was making love to her, driving her out of her head in pleasure, just as he had promised, and yet, he could still take away all he breath and make her absolutely perish from the power of his assertive all alpha male kiss. Libby arched up and squeezed his shoulders under her hands as his clever fingers smirked, finding her wet, and playing with the swollen intimate parts of her that made her moan loud, she clutched onto him so hard in fact that she was certain that the short of her nails left a raking red stinging mark of scratches into his back. But if he noticed, he didn’t do anything other than nip his teeth down onto her neck as her due punishment.

“Oh, Thomas…I’m…”

She cried, as his fingers didn’t cease their coaxing her into her climax, so much so, never mind feeling himself grow close, he could feel close too. Her heat, and her astonishing wetness, he could feel it build. So much so, he could hear each shrewd drive and slap of his hips pulling himself in and out of her, his rhythm building into a relentless drive now. The heat of her pulling him in, as she ravenously accepted each thrust of his with hunger in her movements, and desire in her eyes. He could see she was trying to alleviate the pleasure that was starting to build intimidatingly inside of her. Growing and growing with each deep new plunge he made into her. She was so maddeningly _wild_ with need now, as was he. And they both looked it too, both their eyes feral, and nearly black with craving for the pleasure which was so devastatingly close to being sated. Then he felt it, he felt as she tensed and her body grew so still, he wondered if he had hurt her, but then he saw her hands dig deep into the sheets beside her, and her eyes started to close, until he carried on lunging his length into her, and took her face into his hands, speaking all the while, feeling her clench and spasm about him as she was thrown into the all-consuming tempest that was her climax.

“Look at me, Elizabeth, please, look at me… I want to watch the pleasure in your eyes as you come undone… Because I’m so close too, my love, I’m close ” He murmurs, watching as it took everything she had to open her eyes and stare him down as her pleasure came to its swirling crescendo of pleasure. And she groaned and dug her hands into his back, arching up to press her breasts into him as he felt himself let go too, his lips not even a millimetre away from her own as he shattered. His own climax swept out of nowhere and seized him, his shoulders drove forwards one last time His hand coming to wrap firmly about her back as he finished surging back and forth into her to ride out the potent after waves of his pleasure, so potent in fact, that he can’t hear himself moan and cry as he came undone inside her, his cries drowned out by finally achieving the relief of getting after finally making love to this beautiful woman. And pleasure that swam through him as a result, was almost too much for him to bare. He shuddered into her, filling her up as his movements began to cease, and he slumped forwards with one last pant, his shoulder blades rutting out of his back as he braced himself over her, watching as her quivering body settled down from the final grips of her own pleasure. Her head thrown back into the cool snowy white pillows behind her head, throat stretched out as her head was tilted back, strands of curling red hair sticking to her forehead in sweat as she too gasped and heaved through her chest for her breath. He watched hungrily as he could see rivulets of sweat wriggle their way down her naked front. Her pale skin glinting from the light of the fire by the side of the bed, the other side of the Duke’s large bedroom. Her hair like spun flame. 

Finally, after they managed to gather their heads from floating away to heaven, and their words through their gasps for air. Elizabeth is the first to speak…

“Oh, my...” She swallowed.

“Oh my, _indeed_.”

Thomas groaned, smiling down at his sensual, full figured, beautifully radiant – very well loved -wife. It had been both their first times at making love after all. He had every right to be just as shaken and satisfied as she was. She wore the aftershocks of their lovemaking very well. It was so intimate to see her like this. When she too recovered her own head, she too adored the sight of him now. Dripping sweat running down his lean muscular chest, his eyes ablaze and still filled to the brim with hungry passion, as if they hadn’t just made love like mad rabbits, going at it. But they had. She remarks naughtily to herself, her hand reached up and toyed with the tousled long flop of straight dark hair which hung down into his eyes.

“… And that’s what goes on between man and wife in a marital bed...”

Elizabeth remarked. Finally knowing now what love making was. Eyes shut as she felt her husband slide into the space on the large bed, next to her, nuzzling into her sweaty side. Pressing kisses down her upper arm which was sprawled out beside her. Squeezing her close with one single muscled arm gripping her waist, keeping her close.

“I’d spend every minute of every day of my life doing _that_ to you _were I able...”_

Thomas purred, kissing down her arm, coming to a ticklish patch near her wrist.

“Then, how would we ever leave this bed, my love?”

She smiled as he stopped kissing up her arm and kissed up her throat instead. Pressing gentle kisses up near her ear as he spoke

“We wouldn’t. That’s just the point...” He growled, nipping her ear.

“Your friends would miss you.”

“I would not miss them.” He assured her with a flirty wink

“Ok, then. You family would notice your absence...” She held out

 _She was a stubborn mare, his wife,_ he noted.

“Who?”

He smirked like the devil, tilting a brow and shaking his head as if he could not remember a single one of them after that. His eyes hot as he smiled down at her.

“You are perfectly _wicked_ , Thomas Kenworthy.”

She smiled as he sighed deep, cradling the side of her face in his hand, his free hand brushing a ticklish path down her bare tummy, after having drawn tingling circles over her bare, full breasts. His eyes alight with that melting glare he gave her, right before he always kissed her.

“And how well you’ve learned of that, this evening...My Duchess…” He purred, leaning in to kiss her soundly on the mouth.

“I’m not staying in this bed all day with you tomorrow. I have names to learn and your family to get to know…”

She mumbled stubbornly against his lips as he leaned in to kiss her more hungrily now, pulling her body atop his, his hands stroking down her back to squeeze and cup her bottom. She squeaked as he pinched her ass, _hard_ , and she could feel him smirk onto her lips.

“We’ll see about that…”

He purred in a way that told her his methods of persuasion would be _ruthlessly_ passionate. And would _most probably_ involve more love making…

 

~

 

 

 


	42. New Families, Noon and The Rose Garden's of Chatsworth...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so short! but more is coming I sware!!!!

 

 

She is not quite sure of just precisely what woke her first. It could have been as the night lazily shifted, and the arrayed colours of dawn broke into light, shining a proud sunny shaft of light through the slight gap in her and her husband’s bedroom window, or, she liked to think it was when the birds started their sweet song outside the window, calling out softly into the new gentle colours of bright new day. But part of her, knows, it was when she, still half awake, felt the telltale touch of her husband’s bare hands slide teasingly up her naked back, as she lay on her front, angled away from him in her sleep. But, even so, he had kept his brute forced muscled arm wrapped firmly around her side all night, as she was learning he would always do. Squeezing her closer if she ever dared to drift away from him in her slumber. She smiled into her pillow, feeling his warm palms lovingly caress up her back from her waist, skimming every curve and dip in her spine, and over every little bump of her shoulder blade. A small little groan escaped her lips when she felt the bed shift behind her, as both his arms braced by her ribs, and she felt the heat from his skin warm her bare back, before she felt his wonderfully warm and beautifully soft lips kiss gently up the line of her back. Following the rigid curve of her spine, kissing further and further up. Her tummy flips and wriggles in the easily roused excitement his lips could incite in her. It was like someone had lit a fire to spread across her insides, and the way it burned and claimed her left her giddy for more. She grinned wider feeling him lay such devoted love onto her bare skin, and through the birdsong outside, the blood gonging in her ears, and the sound of his kissing lips pecking their way up her naked body, she hears him speak. And it is a tone that she loved of him, his husky desirably croaky morning voice which set her weak for him.

“Good Morning, Wife.”

He smiles onto her skin, somewhere near the start of her ribs.

She beams back, arms still rooted firmly under her pillow, but she dares to gently open her eyes and twist her head to peer over at him.

“Will you always be so courteous as to wake me up like this every morning, Husband?”

She asks. Her voice too, she found, was a sleep muffled husk of its former self.

“I shall if my Wife requires it of me.”

He rewarded back. Moving further up her spine now, kissing now to just under her shoulder blades. She mewled softly as she felt his hands reach close to tickle gently and lustfully up her sides, and his hair brushed feathery strokes against her back as he dipped his head down. Arousing her into pleasure with such a simple touch.

“ _Oh_ , _lord help me_ , I love those little moaning sounds you make. They drive me wild, darling…” He groans wantonly into the valley of pale skin between her two shoulder blades.

“Ah, my sweet _predatory_ husband...” She japes.

But she finds she then does not have such a lot of room for maneuver, as during some point in her sleep, she had forgotten about her husband brute strength, especially when it is coupled with the ardent force of his desire and passion for her, as both his hands grip her tight, and then proceed to flip her over onto her front, how he wants her, she doesn’t even have time to complain about being unclothed and naked, before his bare body is pressing hers down into the mattress. And once more, just like last night, they were pressed skin to skin, chest to chest, and she can once more reunite herself with his hot adamant blue eyes, and his wickedly potent smile that he could wield at her to get her into doing the most appalling of things, should he so wish. She’d do _anything_ for that lusting smile he was gifted with.

“I was perfectly serious in what I said last night Elizabeth. I have...”

He paused and his grin grew wider

“… _ways_ , of making you stay in this bed with me today, and I am rather intent on using them on you, sweet wife, seeing as you are so keen to disobey me…” He grinned nuzzling down into her throat.

“But I promised Edith I would help her with her books…” Elizabeth groaned as his teeth scraped along her neck, making her shiver in wantonness.

“I-I can’t just abandon my promise to your niece. She’ll think me a rat for such dishonor to my pledge.” She held out.

Thomas growled against her skin in displeasure.

“Then at least allow me until, half past ten, to kiss and love you senseless?” He asks in a plea.

“It’s ten o’clock? I should have been up hours ago, _oh_ , what will the household staff think of me now?”

She asks with wide eyes and a gaped mouth. Her mind launching into worried territory. Thomas let her slide away, moving off to her right, his modesty protected by the thick red quilts, and chuckled with hilarity, seeing that his wife shuffled to the edge of the bed, knotted red hair gliding down her back, as she used the under sheet as a makeshift dress. Clutching it tight to her delectable body.

“They will know that you, my dear heart, spent a long passionate wedding night making loud fervid love to your husband...” Thomas leered wickedly.

“And what will your family think of this?”

She worried aloud, as she rounded the bed and spotted her green gown pooled on the floor in an ineffectual crumple of emerald silk. Laid next to the warm rug, lit by a shaft of sunlight, and directly next to the dying and gaunt embers of the once roaring fire.

“I don’t much give a _damn_ what my family think.”

He smiled, his panicking wife had no ideas that she toga styled Grecian white sheet come dress she donned, turned _quite transparent_ when the sun shined upon it. He grinned wolfishly at that. She was perfectly unawares.

“You sir, are perfectly despicable.” She warded with the gentle slope of her stunning smile

His groin stiffened when he saw her drop the sheet, and quickly tug on her green peignoir to cover her gloriously naked self, up once more.

“I shall go and take a quick bath before I head downstairs…” She informed him, crossing past the bed, perfectly willing to leave him, naked and yearning for her, all alone, out here in their bedchamber. And that, would most certainly _not_ do.

Before she could scurry away, she is halted as a very male hand reaches over and grips the tied sash of her gown tight as she retreated. His grasp on the belt about her waist was firm and resolute. And she barely has time to squeak a protest, before she is hauled backwards onto the bed, the mattress clipping her knees so she is forced to sit her delightfully peachy derrière down onto the bed, and the hand that once grasped her, now furiously wrenched the gown down over her shoulders, to billow open as he ripped the wispy silk thing off of her. She gasps as his lips find that spot, from behind, to her neck that instantly immobilized her.

“You think I’d let you part from me without so much as a little protest?”

He asks her his voice was hot, and his words were nearly reproving, his hands covering and stroking teasingly across her breasts. Feeling how her nipples puckered up into his touch. His breath scorching the back of her neck in the most delightfully erotic way. She gasped and arched back into his touch, as if she were no more than a pet vying for his caresses.

“How foolish of me…” Elizabeth panted.

“I see my desirous biddings are having some, potent, effects upon my, dear, _dear_ wife.” He smirked, nipping down upon her ear.

“We have to get ready…” Came one last half-hearted objection from between her lips.

“Five minutes…” He purrs adoringly, pulling her back down to the mattress.

“Three…”

She smiled as she watched him swing his sheet clad body above her own.

“Ten.” He panted back in retaliation.

“Two.”

“You’re right. _Twenty_ it is...”

He nods, as he soothes as his hands to brush down her naked shoulders, sliding to cup her rounded hips in his hands.

“We are very bad at bartering, my lord.”

She simpers, watching his lips hover close, to lean down over her own, as his eyes flicked up and down her achingly beautiful face that he had missed, even in his sleep. Those electric blue eyes, that shocking flame of lovely red hair, her sweetly radiant smile, rosy cheeks, and cream coloured skin. He adored looking at her, more than any painting, or any view the world could bestow to his eyes.

“But do you know what we are good at?” He smirked smugly.

Her eyes turned promiscuous.

“...And what is that, dear husband?” She asks, full well knowing his answer.

He grinned. Slowly. Wickedly. And all too handsomely.

“It would take half an hour for me to show you...” He growls, before he silenced her complaints with a kiss that made her toes curl. And true to his word, he does. Because no one saw hide, nor hair of the Duke and the Duchess til noon at least.

 

~


	43. Lunching, Invite's, and Troublesome Five Year Old Nieces...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judith is my favourite little character in this chapter...

~

 

The Three Thatcher Kenworthy ladies were all tucking into their lunch, at precisely twelve o’clock, before they heard a peep from the newly wedded Duke and Duchess. The only reason Thomas let Elizabeth surface from their chamber, was that she proclaimed that she was gasping for a pot of tea, and some food, before her stomach made anymore unfortunate and keen gurgling noises. All three ladies could hear grouped footsteps tread their way along to the room where they all now sat. It could have been no other, but the Duke and Duchess.

“So. New Mrs. K, and her dearly devoted husband have decided to show their faces then? Do they come to join us at last? _Hm…_ ”

Ophelia spoke up over the quiet hush of the small elegant dining room, as she daintily sipped her tea. Iris was just buttering her slices of toast quietly, Edith was engrossed in the paper, as per usual, and Judith was feeding her doll a spoonful of coddled eggs.

I _believe so_ , Aunt.” Iris spoke in a reverent hush.

She then smiled over to her eldest daughter, who smiled gently back over the paper. Even from such a distance, they could hear both masculine and feminine giggling, which meant that Thomas was, undoubtedly being far less of a gentleman as he escorted his wife to the informal dining room. Clearly, they were most enamored of each other. And seeing such a display from their usual proper, and often pragmatic relative, was touching indeed, to know love had felled him so wholly.

“They’ve finally finished consummating their marriage union like catholic rabbits then...”

Ophelia added in a staccato gruff, attending back to sipping her hot tea. Her face a pure picture of seriousness, even though her words were _far less_ than amply appropriate. As always they tended to be…

“ _Ophelia!_ ”

Iris chided with a shocked tone. Her grey eyes wide. As their aged relative spewed out such inappropriate chatter in front of a debutante, and a curious five year old.

Edith bit her lips to stop from giggling before she retreated to her paper, and Judith frowned in misunderstanding and looked across to her mother to try and seek a clearer answer. Ophelia saw nothing wrong with what she had proclaimed, matter of fact, she looked shocked by Iris’s distressed response.

“What does consummation mean?”

Judith asked in her petite five year old way. Placing the spoon in her hand down from trying to smear her dolls face with food.

Iris wanted to drop her head into her hands.

“Never _you mind_ , Judith. It is not meant for your ears.” Iris remarked with a gentle hush of a reprove.

“Then whose ears _is it_ for?” Judith continued.

“Eat your lunch, _dear_. Mrs. Elmstone went to a lot of trouble to get your eggs the way you like them. Now, _didn’t she?_ We _shan’t_ wish to repay her by letting them go to _waste_ …”

Iris spoke in urging. Most adeptly at having to deal with the paces of her five year old. If nothing else, she had learned, diversion was the best route to take with one such as her youngest daughter.

“..And why did auntie Ophelia say Catholic rabbits. Why not normal rabbits? What is wrong with being a normal rabbit?” Judith continued.

“Judith. You are a _pest_.” Edith replied flatly

“No I’m not. I am _a Judith_.”

She replied with a moody frown as to why her family were being so _silly_ today. She rolled her eyes, tutted loudly, and carried on with violently jabbing and mashing her dolls face with a spoonful of lukewarm eggs. Edith paid it no mind, and continued with the leisure and arts section of her paper.

Iris sighed in relief. Massaging a hand across her head, Thankful that such a topic of wedding nights and consummation had steered clear of making their way to her youngest daughter’s head. She shook her head, and continued to eat. It was at this point, that Wilkin’s reentered the room, sweeping along in a purely professional manner, silver post tray held aloft in his palm. As he made his way across to Iris and delivered to her the families post.

“Thank you, Wilkins. And I believe that my Brother, and Miss Elizabeth are shortly to join us. Would you be so kind as to ask for another pot of tea for them each?” Iris asked so genteelly, as Wilkin’s bowed, and nodded. Wilkin’s green eyes glittered warmly at her.

“Very good, Ma’am. I shall see to it urgently.”

He replied before tucking the tray under his arm, and gliding silently from the room. Iris swore she knew of no other, who could move as silent as a butler. They almost didn’t have _human feet_ , they may aswell have had rollers on the soles of their shoes.

Iris tore gently open, a couple of her correspondences, one to her friend who lived in Castleton, the nearest town not five miles away. The other was from her and Thomas’s mother. Caroline Kenworthy, after the death of her husband when both her and Thomas were 18, she left her still young son to deal with the weight and responsibility of a Dukedom all on his own, without any guidance. She had spent most of her time, abroad. She was a nice enough woman, iris supposed, and she always enquired as to her grandchildren, Edith and Judith, in her letters, and asked how the entire family fared. But she rarely came back to England for anything in the world. Not even when Iris married John, nor John died, not when Thomas was injured in the war. Nothing. Not even when her grandchildren were both born. It was as if she had no ties to this house. Or to her son, the Duke. She wrote once in a while if she needed more funds, but that was it. It was Iris’s understanding that she liked living a life with no strings, a life of frivolity and joy. Iris didn’t even know what continent, her mother resided on now. And she knew that by the time she penned a response, and sent it on its way, that Caroline would have hot footed it to the next country, and her letter would be returned to the sender. She was not very good at remaining in one place for an extended period of time. This, she and Thomas knew well. Though Iris could never think ill of her own mother, it made her a little saddened to know that their mother valued her own merriment, above her families.

She placed the letter down in front of her. She’d come to read it later. When she could spare the time and the solitude to better examine it.

“Mother?”

Edith asked gently. Ignoring how, next to her, her younger sister was making whirring noises as she sailed her spoon through the air.

“Yes, dear?” Iris asked with a hushed tone, and her staple kind smile.

“Is anything the matter?” She enquired. “You look a tad aggrieved.” Edith frowned in genteel empathy that was definitely a trait she inherited from her mother.

“Your, grandmother, has sent us another letter...” Iris explained carefully.

Edith eyes flickered to the letter which lay in front of her mother, opposite the table.

“I see.” Edith spoke blandly.

“Did she atleast humour us with the knowledge of where abouts in the world she is residing? This time?” Edith asked with an edge to her voice.

“Edith...” Iris chided gently.

“Or does she remind us still how wonderful it is to lead such a selfish life of superficial idleness?” Edith bit out.

Iris’s eyes switched to the door, as she could better hear the sound of her Brother and new Sister-in-law approaching on swift feet.

“Pray tell, do not let a peep of this out to Thomas. For I fear it would ruin his mood. I have not seen him so happy in years, and I shall not have his joy _ruined_ by mention of this letter, or our Mother. He should be allowed to enjoy his wife, and his celebrations of marriage while the occasion is still fresh upon him. We shall pursue the matter further _, later, away_ from his ears, _am I_ to be understood?” Iris asked in a firm tone.

Even though the woman was kind, and so humble. And was such a gentle creature it should have been disarming, when it came to the happiness of her brother, she would look as fierce as ever Edith knew her. She’d defend with her dying breath, the love, and merriment, of the people she loved. Edith respected that kind of devoted familial passion. So she nodded, folding her paper, and going to sip her tea. Leaving the matter til later, as per suggestion.

Edith and Iris looked across the dining room, in time to see two familiar figures cross the doorway as Thomas held it open for his beloved wife. Elizabeth glided in first, followed keenly by her husband. Both their smiles, wide and warm. Elizabeth’s grew all the more as she saw her new family sat to the table before her.

“Good Morning, Princess Elizabeth.” Came Judith’s loud, nearly shouted and exuberant, sing song of a greeting.

“Good morning to you, my Queen.”

Elizabeth laughed back, and Thomas helped steer her into a chair, politely pulling it out so his wife may sit down. She also bade good morning to Ophelia, and Edith and Iris in turn. Whom smiled warmly back to the new Duchess. She thanked her husband gently as he helped her down, and he replied with a less than appropriate filthy and scandalous wink. From this vantage point, he could see the recent new bruise which his lips had caused to the back of her pale neck. Standing out like beacon of his passion.

“Good morning, Jester.”

Judith grinned as her uncle crossed and pressed a kiss to her hair. He smile down upon his little niece.

“No less cheeky, this morning, so I see, Majesty...” Thomas beamed down upon her. Judith giggled with glee to that.

“Uncle Thomas, will you tell me what consummation means, and Catholic rabbits?” Judith asked.

Elizabeth’s eye shot very wide, and she bore her teeth down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing aloud. Thomas did naught but blink at the five year old. Iris slammed her head into her hands this time. She had been remiss not too on the last occasion.

“Pest.” Edith repeated in a whisper.

“Judith.” Iris groaned in a scolding manner.

Thomas swallowed, and expelled a shocked breath before he answered her.

“You look fetching today, Queen Judith. Is that a new dress and shoes, I see?” Thomas asked. The best route, when it came to Judith, _was,_ after all, _diversion_.

“Indeed, it is...” She remarked happily.

“Well, it’s very nice indeed.”

Thomas added. Wondering where the devil that first comment came from. Though if he was wise enough at all, it had originated from the dinosaur aged relative at the opposite end of the table.

“The colour becomes you, _very well, indeed_ , your majesty.”

Elizabeth smiled with a wink from across the table. Seeing that Judith little cheeks flushed red from such a compliment. She then shrunk down in her seat, all shy from such a praise.

“Morning Ed.” Thomas greeted, moving onto his next niece. “Done with my paper yet?” Thomas asked cheekily

“Perhaps if you had rolled out of bed a tad earlier, dear uncle, you may have had a sporting chance of beating me to it..” She sassed him cheekily.

“Touché, dear Niece, touché.” He smirked as he accepted the slab of paper she gifted him with.

“Anything I should steer clear of?” He asks.

“Page 9, may divert you, but the writer on page 11 is very dull. Very dull indeed. Nearly rendered me asleep.” Edith confirmed.

“Thank-you kindly for the warning. My mini Iris.”

He spoke with a sly smile, moving back across to take his seat again. Next to his wife, sitting down and placing a kiss upon her hand. Who was smiling as he soaked up the sorely missed normalcy of his own family. It was a lovely thing to witness, to see him so at ease, and jovial. Not that she had ever known him _not_ to be, but she had never seen him truly relaxed in his own environment in such a way.

“Morning Ophelia…” He called down the other end of the table. As he sat down.

 _“Hm_?” She barked back, wincing.

“What did you say, boy?”

“I said _good morning,_ Aunt.” Thomas called a little louder.

“I’ll have you up for contempt, boy, if you keep up with all that cursed mumbling...” She growled.

Thomas frowned at that. _Contempt. What planet was she residing her mad self on on this morning?_ He wondered.

“I _SAID, GOOD MORNING_ , AUNT!” Thomas shouted.

“There is no need _to shout boy,_ I’m not _deaf_ you know.”

Elizabeth, Edith and Iris tried their best to not giggle aloud at their conversing. Thomas rolled his eyes, mood souring, trying his best not to growl in annoyance, before he turned and caught all their stiff faces, trying to hide their laughter.

“You will, all of you, not be so amused when I _perish_ from blood pressure related ailments.”

“Heaven’s, dear husband, I thought it was common knowledge that all elderly relations are dangerous for the blood pressure. _Especially_ Great _Great_ Aunts.”

Elizabeth smiled in teasing. Her eyes bright and daring. As Iris sought not to snort the sip of tea she had just taken, back into the teacup. And Edith, at her uncles cross look, sought to accelerate her laughing fit into a coughing one, instead.

“Tread _carefully, wife_.”

Thomas leered in a way that let her know he’d go about giving her owned penance in a way such as he had done earlier. Involving a bout of showing and reminding her how skilled he was at purely ‘man and wife’ activities in their bedchamber.

Wilkin’s chose this exact moment to insert himself back into the room, sweeping along the right side of the table, and noiselessly and effortlessly placing a large silver pot of steaming tea in-between the Duke and Duchess. Elizabeth smiled at the kind butler.

“Good morning, Wilkin’s.” She smiled prettily. “I take it there have been no more sneezing incidents since I left you. For that remedy has not once failed me, and I should hate to hear of it falling flat to you.” She smiled.

Wilkin’s smiled fondly to her, bowing lightly.

“It worked excellently, your Ladyship.” He bestowed with a touch of fondness in his eyes. “It saw me very well, indeed.” He promised her.

“I’m delighted to hear of it.” She smiled.

“What would you and the Duke care to lunch on, Mi’Lady? I know for a fact that cook has some very excellent pork chops which she would happily grill for you should you wish...” He smiled kindly.

Thomas raised a brow. He was right about half the staff being mad in love with her. The Iron willed cook, Mrs Elsmtone, had even followed suit to adoring his new wife. She had never offered him the luxury of her best cuts of meat she kept aside for emergencies. Possibly though, because he ribbed her like he would a relative, and he never ate all his greens just to jape with the portly no nonsense woman.

“That is most kind, tell her thank you for me, But I do believe that divine looking roast ham will be plenty enough. Thank you Wilkin’s…”

She smiled, as he bowed and returned to the kitchens just as silently as he had come. She was referring to the table before them, laden with cold meats, plates piled high with cold ham, beef, and chicken. There were boiled potatoes, buttered carrots and runner beans. Elizabeth’s stomach grumbled upon looking at it all. And Thomas, ever the gentleman, ceased with reading his paper, to help carve a slice for his wife. He watched as she tucked into her food with vigor. Uncaring for being polite, she cleared her plate, then went back for seconds. Clearly their _arduous activities_ the evening last had left her exhausted and in need of nourishment to help sustain herself.

Thomas shook his head, smiling at his wife, before turning to the pile of post that Wilkin’s had left on the table for him. He tore into his letters, a few matters relating to business, a couple more to tenant problems, which he would see too today were he able. He shouldn’t like to leave his land renters unattended. But then, right at the bottom of the pile, was one from his good friend, Sir Robert Compton. He was a middle aged man, whose generosity and friendship had helped him out so greatly when he was younger. He was like a second father to Sir Thomas. After his mother fled the country without so much as a ‘by your leave’ when he and Iris were 18 after the death of their father, Sir Robert had taken the new Dukedom inherited Brother and sister under his wing, and helped them see to how to properly run a house, and all of the duties that followed as to being a Duke. He was a polite, and hugely generous man. His build was portly, warm, and un-ignorable, and as such, had written Thomas a letter, stating he had seen his and Elizabeth’s wedding announcement in the times. Wishing him such wondrous joy, and asking if he would be so good as to attend as assembly he was giving at his own large estate, Clifton Park, in a weeks’ time. He invites Thomas and his new Bride, Iris, Edith, and Ophelia. (Judith was still a tad young to attend such things, though he remarked he missed her excellent company too) Sir Thomas smiled, Sir Robert wrote in such a warm and engaging manner, and he knew when he saw him once again, after all his months away in London, that his smile and his joy would still be infectious as it always was. He would be delighted to see the man again. And his obliging family. His dear wife, Henrietta, and their daughters, both married women now. And away from home. But Sir Robert wrote they were, all of them, keen to see him again, and would be in attendance to the ball next week. Writing with well wishes from each of them. It would also be a fine opportunity to showcase his new bride to all of the landowners, and people of influence to this part of the world.

“Darling...” Thomas spoke to his wife by his side.

Elizabeth, who was taking a sip of tea, turned to his endearment.

“Yes, Dear?” She asked.

“How would you feel about attending an assembly in a weeks’ time. It is to be held by my dear Friend, Sir Robert Compton. At his own estate, Clifton park. Not ten miles away. I have not seen him since last November at least. He invites all of us to a ball...” Thomas explained.

She smiled warmly.

“I should adore to go.” She beamed.

“I shall write him our confirmation.” Thomas smiled, looking down over the letter again.

“Oh, I do miss him. How is Sir Robert?” Iris asked.

“He did call once when you were in London. He said he was sorry to have missed you.” Iris confirmed.

“He is well. He declares he cannot wait to meet us all again. And to meet my lovely new bride.” Thomas grinned. Turning to said woman, and curling a knuckle to stroke gently down her cheek.

Elizabeth flushed at that. She could not help it. His eyes glowed warmly at his love. His melting smile made her glad she was sat down.

Iris smiled at the two of the, all moony eyed at each other.

“So. What are everyone’s plans for today?” Thomas asked to the table of ladies before him.

“Well. I must press my insistence upon a certain person to help me index my books into the large library…” Elizabeth smiled.

She watched as Edith smiled.

“I should be very happy to assist you in it, Elizabeth.” Edith beamed warmly.

“Pray, when shall we start?” Elizabeth asked.

“Is after lunch too soon?” Edith smiled keenly.

Thomas and his wife chuckled. It was touching to see how much Edith adored her, clearly her company was much clamored after this afternoon. Meaning he would not get a look in on spending a chunk of some more time making love to his wife. Clearly, today, **_his_** Duchess was spoken for.

“Not too soon at all, Edith.” She remarked.

“Elizabeth, will you read me a bedtime story later?” Judith asked, not being beaten to missing out on her company.

“I should take great delight in it, your highness.” Elizabeth remarked.

“Can we read Beauty and the Beast? _Oh please_ , oh _can we?”_ Judith jumped about in her seat excitedly. Blue eyes wide with excitement, smile as happy as ever she had seen it.

“Absolutely. Shall it require any silly voice’s on my behalf?” Elizabeth asked most sincerely.

Judith giggled fantastically.

“We shall see...” She laughed.

“Uncle Thomas can be the Beast, Elizabeth, you may be the beauty, for you are already so _beautiful_ …” Judith required.

Elizabeth smiled wide to that compliment.

“And I so beastly?” Thomas asked in a reproving glare to his young niece.

Judith giggled out an elated smile of confirmation.

“Let me get this straight, Miss Judith Thatcher-Kenworthy. I have deteriorated from the rank of jester, to beast, all in 24 hours?” Thomas asked her with a smiling glower.

“And my new bride, in the same timeframe, has risen from station of Princess to beauty...Whilst your own flesh and blood uncle is cast to the wayside as an animal?” Thomas enquired sternly.

Judith didn’t look the least bit sorry about such an errant disappointment on her uncle’s behalf.

“It looks like I shan’t be seeing much of you today, dear husband. For I am promised to these two _fine_ young ladies.” Elizabeth smiled sweetly.

“I may steal some of your attention away much later then. Nearer dinnertime?” He asked.

Iris laughed at the kicked puppy expression that her brother was baring now at being parted for so long from his wife. He hated parting from her for even five minutes, and he was to be separated from her today for _many_ _hours_. The thought was proving almost too much for him to stomach.

“It may be some time after dinner. For I promised to show Elizabeth the rose garden’s before it gets too dark…”

“Yes that is very true. I cannot break my promise, now, Thomas, can I?” Elizabeth grinned.

Iris grinned, flitting a wicked wink at Elizabeth. Who smiled, knowing that iris was ribbing her elder brother mot cruelly, depriving him of his new much loved wife’s company.

Thomas glared moodily to his twin.

“You do not _play fair_ , Iris Thatcher Kenworthy.” He growled lowly.

“A sibling’s trait, I believe...” Iris taunted back.

Thomas’s face turned grumpily to thunder at that.

 

~


	44. Books, Wars, and Telling of Heroic Tales...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 1 of 2...

 

 

True to Edith’s words. The precise second that luncheon ended, Elizabeth is hauled away by a captivated Edith, away above stairs to the second library. (There were _three_ in total in all of Chatsworth Manor, she learned, and also that Edith had snagged the grandest of them) Elizabeth would never forget her grown husbands petulant face, and pleading big blue doe eyes as he watched her get tugged away from the dining table. But she was quickly swept up in Edith Kenworthy’s lively character, and she soon forgot to remember to miss him.

They walked the moderate distance from the dining room, up through the grand sweeping staircase, of which Elizabeth still pertained the room around it was her favourite in the house, so far, and they nattered and conversed upon books all the while.

Edith even enlightened Elizabeth that she was halfway through, in her own words, ‘a Grand Shakespearian Quest’ at present. This self-motivated, and semi academic mission had taken up nearly up to _six months_ to complete, she had relented. Edith had begun with _‘All’s Well That Ends Well’_ naturally then, _‘Antony and Cleopatra’_ , _‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’_ and _‘As You Like It’_ , and had proceeded alphabetically from there on out. Slowly making her merry way through _Hamlet_ , all of the _Henry’s_ , then forwards onto ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and _Richard II_ and III, and numerous other plays that were not his most famous, but nonetheless, she read them _all_ with determined vigor. After all, it would be a gross insult to the greatest playwright and writer in all of the English language to not finish such a task.

Elizabeth smiled on hearing her rattle off such an extensive list. And she could see it was no false proclaimed venture, for the debutante now held a battered and crackled worn leather copy of _‘Twelfth Night’_ cradled in her hands, which had also been resting beside her on the dining table, at lunch. The two ladies came to the top of the stairs, Edith still clutching the book fondly to her chest, and Elizabeth holding her scarlet velvet skirts out of the way, so that she did not trip.

“I myself have never endeavored to take such a worthwhile venture. For I know if I ever _dared_ too, it would be interrupted and unfinished. For my Stepmother would always be willing to remind me that reading was a poor use of my time when I could have been out, searching for a _husband_. She’d think it a better use of my time to put down the book, and _drag_ me to a ball to dance _with every_ eligible man in sight.”

Edith took in Elizabeth’s every word with curious empathy. A resting smile on her pretty features.

“I have only been to country balls and assemblies. I’ve never been to London. My Mother can’t bear it after Father died. I can’t imagine what it must be like to parade and swan about in pretty dresses in a roomful of people whom you don’t know. It sounds rather, _nerve-wracking_ to me. I should _hate_ to be the centre of attention. To be weighed, and calculated and fussed over like some prize winning _animal_ at a county fair…” Edith professed gently.

Elizabeth nodded, smiling.

“That is a truly great way to put it. I grant you that the marriage mart in London is remarkably similar to an _auction_ to my eyes. It is a wonder that I have escaped it as _well_ as I have done. It is a stale old barbaric tradition, I think. Though I have not been considered the catch of the season since 1853 atleast, there were not many bidders for my hand.”

“Do I take it then, that my uncle was the highest bidder?” Edith remarked with gentle hilarity

“By a long shot. In _every_ manner. The contender against him was a miserable excuse for a man. And would not be parted from me without a fuss. He felt cheated. But I would not accept his hand were he the _last man_ in England. I shan’t go into the particulars, I fear they are not for a debutantes ears. But he was wretched, truly _vile_. And once I had met your uncle, he paled in comparison. It was almost crafted as if he and I only had eyes for each other. It was quite remarkable." Elizabeth remarked

“Your uncle saved me in so many ways, Edith that he can’t _even_ comprehend the _least_ of them.”

“He saved you from a loveless marriage?” Edith asked with wonder and romance in her tone.

“A loveless marriage. A horrible man. Another year of being auctioned off to the bachelors of London. Everything.” She smiled.

“That is so romantic…” Edith dreamt aloud.

                                         Elizabeth smiled.

“Your uncle, is the most _wonderful_ man, I have ever met. And he _adores you_ , and Iris and Judith, and though he tries to hide it, Ophelia too. Upon the night I first met him, I asked if he had any family back home, and when he said your names, and how he missed you. His whole face _lit up_.” She confessed.

Edith smiled wryly.

“We are very thankful for him. He saved us too, you know? After my Father died in the Crimean War in 1854, he insisted, and was so thoroughly _adamant_ that we were to move in here, with him. He would not hear of our protests.”

“You did _not_ always live here?” Elizabeth asked.

Edith confirmed with a shake of her head.

“We lived about an hour’s coach ride from here, nearly 50 miles away, in Chesterfield, in a small, lovely little cottage. Ever since my mother and John married, and found out they were expecting me, they lived in this cottage. My uncle brought it for John, and my Mother as a wedding present when she moved away from home. And, some of my earliest memories were playing with my mother and father both, as a little girl, in that cottage. It was happily situated in a meadow, where big yellow flowers bloomed across it each summer, and there was a small stream nearby. I’ll never forget the smell of the mornings dew which roamed across the fields on winter mornings. It was so peaceful, it was bliss. And, then Father was called up, he paid for a commission in the army, to fight. And Thomas insisted that as I was 12, and that Judith was not even a year old, and that consequently all of us had _no_ choice but to move back to Chatsworth, so we had the staff here to attend to and take care of us when both my father and Thomas were away…”

Elizabeth frowned.

“Where was your uncle during the war?” She asked in curiosity.

Edith looked taken aback at such a question.

“Uncle Thomas fought in the war _too_.” She explained.

Elizabeth's heart stopped beating for a moment. 

“He was injured at Sevastopol in 1854. He received the Victoria Cross, because he saved his best Friend, Sir Carlton’s life, and the lives of all the men in his regiment, before he was gravely injured by a wound to his thigh. He nearly _died_.” Edith told.

Elizabeth’s mouth gaped.

Edith looked shocked, and a little scared. Ashen blue eyes wide, and her lips parted as she gasped. Looking horrified.

“He has _not_ told you? Oh _, Elizabeth_ , I _am so sorry_ , I never. _Oh._ I _didn’t_ think _\- I…”_ She stammered.

Edith watched as her Aunt-In-Law smiled, shaking her head, and placing her hand over Edith’s own.

“ _Oh, please_. Pray, _do not_ make yourself uneasy. Edith. _I beg you_ , your uncle would not want it. I am sure his reasons for concealing it from me, are just, if I know him _but at all._ Never worry. I shall not relay from whom I heard it. And I am very satisfied he shall not be angered over the matter of whom told me, in any instance. I am his _wife_ , after all, I was bound to find out this fact _sooner_ or _later…_ ” She explained.

Edith bit her lip.

“He doesn’t like talking about the war.” She supposed quietly “Especially not in front of my Mother…”

“It wouldn’t take a fool to know why…” Elizabeth added kindly to that.

“Indeed.” Edith nodded.

“You and your mother are so _very brave,_ Edith. I’ve never _known_ more courageous people, it must be a family trait, I believe….”

Edith flushed lightly at the compliment.

“So. Thomas took you in to live here after the horrors your family endured after the war?” Elizabeth asked.

Edith nodded, her smile returning.

“Yes. He did. We are all very indebted to my uncle. He would not even entertain the idea of us returning to our cottage. He bought the land our house was on, and put it aside, for if we ever did wish to move back there, one day. But, I don’t think my mother could stomach it. He sold on the house, and gave the living to my mother for her to spend as she wished. He made us feel _so_ at ease here, he let us each have whatever rooms we fancied. He gave me the largest library, and brought me thousands of books to fill it. He learnt that my mother adored tending to the rosebushes we had back home, and planted as many as he could get his hands on, to give her the rose gardens to the east of the back lawn to keep her spirits up. After Judith got a little older, he gave her nearly an _entire wing_ as a playroom and nursery, and more than enough toys to go along with it. He attended to anything we could have _ever_ wished for. And wanted _nothing_ in return but for us to be happy. He has even already settled dowries on both me, and Judith. For we are to receive a living of £30,000 each if we ever wed… my mother says it is jet his kind nature, and I agree. But I also think he shouldered the blame quite harshly for our father’s death.”

Elizabeth’s brows pulled together in an uneasy frown.

“Why on earth would he do that?” She asked.

“Uncle Thomas was an Officer, in the 10th Royal Hussars. He was of high rank, and authority. And My Father was in the 6th Dragoon Guards as a rifleman, as his family was from up North. But after Thomas was injured, gravely, he was left fighting for his life for almost an entire week. No one was sure if he would live or die. But, eventually, his leg healed, and as the war was coming to a close, he was sent home with his medal of honour, to rest. But before he left, apparently, he was frantic. Searching high and low for my father. But they dismissed him, and sent him home without answering his enquiries. He said he was halfway home when he received the missive about my Father’s death. He too, had been injured, but it was far graver, and infection set in. He died in a nursing camp not five miles from where Thomas himself was stationed. He’ll always remark the hardest thing he ever had to do, was limp home, in extraordinary amounts of pain, in his pressed uniform like a toy soldier with a glory medal pinned to his lapel, to march through those gates with nothing but a mere letter to show my mother her worst nightmare had come true, to explain to her that her husband was not coming back.”

Edith explained.

“Uncle Thomas felt like he should have done more. He should have _fought_ harder, and tried _harder_ to make sure that my Father was attended to _properly_. In his words, ‘It didn’t matter that he had been injured by the enemy, for it was Thomas’s own actions _that killed him’._ My Mother, I think took the news better than he intended her too. I can’t remember it very well, but I was 12 at the time, and it was so early in the morning when he returned. But all I could recall being huddled in my nightgown, cold as an icicle in the foyer, and seeing my uncle just _collapse sobbing_ into my mother’s arms, right there on the doorstep. I remember it vividly, because it was the only time I had seen him cry.” Edith swallowed.

“He blamed himself _for months afterwards_ , he always denied it, but we could all tell he was mourning and punishing himself for his actions in not saving my Father, like he felt he _should have_ done. It got to a point where my Mother had to slap some sense and hindsight into him. For it was not as if Thomas pulled the trigger, and gave John his injuries. She always insisted if he wanted something to be mad at, then the Russian army was a _far wiser venture_ to hate upon, than himself…”

Elizabeth smiled a little to that. Iris was right, though if she knew her husband’s caring demeanor but at all, he would consider his fault to personally save his Brother-in-law a great sin, and his greatest lapse. She knew he was a righteous man. But after hearing of this, she’d declare he was practically a _saint_ among men. A saint who did not like to _crow too loud_ over his glorified past of being a war hero. He wanted to let it fade to dust for his own shouldered and self-inflicted shame.

Unbeknownst to them, but as Elizabeth and Edith spoke, they had slowed their gait. And now, as they idled along slowly, they had not realized they had come to the large double doors behind which, the largest library in the house lay.

“I just would like to exclaim, I, I did not mean to coax the painful past out of you, Edith. I’m sorry if relaying it caused your grief…” Elizabeth spoke, laying a kind hand on the young girls shoulder.

Edith waved her off with a brave smile that bolstered her courage.

“It did not. It is our families’ history, and you have a right to know of it. After all, _you_ are a part of _our family now_.” Edith smiled wide. Looking glad for that fact.

“And how glad I am for it.” Elizabeth smiled back.

Edith beamed as she threw open the door. Elizabeth began to walk in, smiling as she saw the hand painted sign pinned on the door. Edith watched as her Aunt-in-law examined the note. And smiled wide at it.

“Judith painted it for me…” She explained. “And she was most adamant that it was to be put up in pride of place…” Edith offered, rolling her eyes, her hand on the door handle.

Elizabeth chuckled, seeing the loopy and inelegant hand of the five year old, who had scrawled the words _‘Ediff’s Buk Rowm_ ’ messily across the paper, with some form of animal crawling near the bottom, along with a blue sky, and a misshapen yellow orb that _could_ have possibly been the sun.

“I think that is _adorable_. Is that a, _dog_ , down the bottom there?” She asks.

“ _No_ , unfortunately.” Edith confessed.

“I asked her the very same question. But she’s instant that it is a _tree_.” Edith replied flatly.

Elizabeth eyes over the definitely four legged thing known as a 'tree' once more. Before she nodded, and glided through the door that Edith kindly held for her. And when she stepped through the doorway, she had to stop and take a moment for herself, to let her eyes fully take in the grandeur of the room before her.

 

It was large, there was no denying that. Not for anything in the world. It stretched out before her for atleast 300 hundred or so feet. When Edith had said Thomas had lavished upon his eldest niece, the biggest Library that the house could boast, she had not been telling tall tales. This space was so heartily impressive, it made the library she had always thought large, back on Montague Street in London, look like a _broom cupboard_ by comparison. The long narrow room was stuffed with books, crammed neatly in order on every shelf she could see. And the long narrow space was cluttered with comfortable looking chairs and seats enough to seat thirty people. The lighting was elegant and warm, just enough so that the dark space did not appear gloomy. The yellow draperies and furnishings giving the place a calmer, lighter and more feminine air about it. Elizabeth could see why Iris had said they had not seen hide nor hair of Edith for atleast a week. If her home entertained a library as _wholly_ wonderful and splendid as _this one_ , then she too would not want to leave it either. She’d happily live amongst the crammed shelves to lead a very satisfied and solitary life in the wise and artful company of books and their words, indeed.

“You did not underexagerate your Uncles generosity, so I see.” Elizabeth spoke at last.

Edith moved behind her flabbergasted aunt-in-law, smiling wide, and watching as she was transfixed by the room before her. She pulled the door too, and surveyed the same scene which her new relative was so beguiled by. She had looked upon it a hundred times now, so it was nothing new to her. But she took great delight in knowing that Elizabeth liked it, very much.

It was then that Elizabeth saw something that she recognized, which turned out to be the large, and heavy leather trunks which she had brought with her all the way from London. The ones filled to the brim with all her measly stash of books she had brought with her, of which needed sorting into this excellent library, and of whom, the excellent librarian stood just behind her.

Elizabeth smiled.

“Well.” The elder woman beamed.

“Shall we get going?”

She asked Edith, who smiled eagerly back. Watching as Elizabeth flipped open the large lid of the trunk, and set to work under the guidance of her new niece.

 

~

 


	45. ~ A Note From Your Author~

 

 ~ here there be cussing, anyone offended by this, I'm sorry. come see me. I'll buy you a pint as an apology ~

 

 

 

Hello all,

As all of you who commented know, I did have a bit of a rough time of it just recently...

I do not mind declaring that I could not see the wood for the trees, so to speak.

I was focusing so hard on those who were posting hatred to me, I couldn't see past that to all the lovely and nice people who were leaving nice and appreciative comments for me. and that will not happen again.

And I am sorry. I could never abandon this story in such a half ass and cowardly way. I love it, I really do. And it wasn't this one I received negativity on, it was a few others of my works which people had been less than nice on. I was a bit more than fed up with this, I put my heart and soul, and hours and hours into my writing, and to firstly be accused of plagiarism of another authors work, just. it actually reduced me to tears, _actual tears_. I couldn't, I didn't know what to say.

let me tell you now, waking up to see 24 comments of  pure hatred and of people saying I had copied someone's work ( an author who I thoroughly admire. And whose story is second to none) it, really hurt me to see that people thought I had done that. But now, I am over that. and I have some things to say to those people who ganged up and spat abuse at me..

1\. fuck you

2\. My story was IN NO FUCKING way like that authors. They both had the fact that a woman and a man met in a bar (But if you're gonna hate on me for that, then you better get going on all the 3,000 other stories on here that begin like that)

-fuck you some more, actually -

3\. It was 2 chapters long, I didn;t even have a chance to continue it before you kindly shit all over it, accusing me of such dreadful things.

4\. fuck you (again, perhaps) Because I am not heartless, or stupid enough to copy someone else's work. I've had it done to me. It is horrible. But I respect that author very much. they are lovely. (I'm not naming names) and you think that as a respectful person, that I could ever do that to someone? well. you need your bloody head examined mate. frankly.

and all of the above, somewhere between the 24 messages and the hatred, I lost my passion for writing.

I was in a little slumped pit of misery for a while - hence no updates, I didn't even want to think about coming on this website, let alone updating it- and secondly, because, I've just had comments that just suck all of the joy of writing out of me. - whatever happened to the 'if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all' phrase. Because some people I really wanted to shout that at this week.

it's like, _oh, my story doesn't meet YOUR expectations, or YOUR satisfaction. then, kindly FUCK OFF about it._ don't shove hate in my face, that's not what anyone needs.

Or, mypersonal favourite is when people say something like;

' _insult, insult, insult, insult, this is wrong, I don't like this. change this. great story though'_.

the fuck? what is that about??

well. hold up _. um. no_. you obviously _don't_ think it's a "great story" or you wouldn't have taken the careful time to devote _four lines of hatred_ to it. Now, would you?

 

argh. some people... honestly...

 

anyway, rant over. nice punk back in the house now... no more cussy punk, (for now)

 

Thankyou to those who are supportive and lovely and comment, I love you. I want to marry you and have your babies please, Thankyou til the day I die for your love. I love you all. no more, no less. and Punk_In_Docs will live on to see another day.

 

Open message to all Rude People: if you're gonna hate on me, one. don't

 

and, two

 

jog on, or piss off, fuck off, go fuck yourself, pick whichever you prefer.

I don't have time to waste stewing on your hate.

 

sincerely, an author who _loves_ their writing.

 

\- Punk_In_Docs.

x

 

 

 

 

 


	46. Red Salon's, Tea, and Mischevious Duke's...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh, Thomas...
> 
> scoundrel Indeed he is!

 

~ Chatsworth Manor's Red Drawing Room ~

 

 

~ Another beautiful gown of Mrs Kenworthy's... ~

 

 

~

 

 

Thomas had been hunched over the numerous complexities that were his business papers for almost three hours by the time there came a soft little rap of a knock to his study door. The cause of which could only ever be his polite and astute butler, Wilkin’s. The noise disjointed him from being deeply engaged in writing replies to the letters that had been piling up in his absence when he was otherwise occupied, away in London. He looked up, suddenly realizing that he had a stiff knot in his neck that started to throb painfully, that his feet had fallen asleep, and that, much to his surprise, the clock on his offices mantel that read ten to one, when he sat down, now read quarter to four. The hours had flown him by on very swift wings, without him even noticing, nor batting an eyelid to it.

“Enter.”

He granted to his Butler beyond the slab of the oak door, before he saw Wilkin’s sweep his polite and near silent way through it, bowing, before he straightened and took in the weathered look of his master opposite him

“I beg your pardon for my interruptions, Sir, but I come bearing a message from your wife…”

Wilkin’s smiled, and as such, his grin only grew when Thomas’s previously bored and weary pallor snapped to instant attention at that. His blue eyes grew interested, sparking with attentiveness, and his smile tipping wider at the sides. He placed down his ink pen so that the nib didn’t drip ink onto his correspondences. And suddenly, the pressing urgency of his work slipped away with news of his love. Clearly she and Edith had needed a break from organizing their musty and dusty old books, finally, it had taken three hours, but maybe, just maybe, now there laid a possibility of snatching a few minutes of peace and passion with his own damn wife. _At last_. He had to make his mind stick to the importance of his work when he first began earlier, and not let the devious side of it stray into relaying the _incidents_ of the evening past repeat in his mind. Though, his rebellious mind and his aching body meant that it was bloody hard _not to._

“Yes?” Thomas nodded, sounding desperate. Like he needed the information as fast as possible on where his Elizabeth was.

“She asks if you would kindly join her for tea and to partake in an afternoon bite to eat in the Red salon, Mi’Lord...”

Wilkin’s proudly told, displaying the message with a small elegant smile. His green mossy eyes glittering with amusement. He didn’t even need a confirmation. The look in the Duke’s eyes was enough of an affirmative confirmation for him.

“I shall tell her you will be along shortly, Sir, if you will excuse me, I shall go to see to it that Mrs Elmstone has another pot of tea brewing in preparation for you…” He bowed, ducking out of the room

Thomas grinned, watching the door click shut as he rose to his feet, springing out of his desk chair like a _shot_ , standing and walking across the room, willing his feet in waking up. And feeling his knees click and shatter into place as he walked, and that his neck screamed in partial pain from where he had been hunched over for half the afternoon. But he did not care. In that moment, _his_ wife _wanted him_ , and _he, wanted_ his _wife_.

He tugged the door open and strode proudly out of it. Having grabbed his overcoat from the hook as he passed it by. And he now slid his jacket on, the large echoing corridors and hallways bit at him with a slight chilling tint to the air. Of course, whatever rooms the families inhabited, there would be a fire set for them. But the house was so grand, there was no use lighting the grand hearths anywhere else to go to waste. And besides, the bliss and warmth of his wife’s open arms kept him warmer than any jacket ever could manage to.

His feet automatically guided him to the directions of the many drawing rooms that Chatsworth boasted of. A large number of which were just down the hall, and around the corner from where his office was. He made his way quickly and with little fuss.

Only problem was, when he came to the long stretch of the corridor where a great number of doors branched off into large drawing rooms, Thomas, for the very life of him, couldn’t remember _which_ was _which._

Chatsworth Manor, after all, had over 247 rooms in total. And he had better things to do with his days, _now_ , than to memorize which one was the bloody blue salon, or the damned yellow or green salon.

He slowed his gait, his eyes flickering from door to door as if to try his level best to jog his memory. But nothing, which was appalling really. He had lived here for all his _thirty_ years of life, and he was a remarkably intelligent and pragmatic man, and _still_ he did _not_ know where in the blue blazes the red drawing salon was. It was _pitiful_ of him _really_.

Luckily though, he heard footsteps draw close behind him, and he turned, a little too wildly and over excitedly, to see he had made a housemaid laden down with freshly washed bed linens, startle behind him. Her eyes wide with curiosity as to why the master of the house was floundering on the spot like a simple idle brained idiot.

He recognized her though. Though he did not remember rooms or their décor, he knew every single name of _all_ 45 members of his staff, he had hired nearly over half of them, after all. And he knew who the housemaid Elsie Simpkins was when she crossed his path. She was also the girl whom was assigned to be Elizabeth’s new ladies maid, she was a lovely girl, if but a little mouthy according to Mrs Elmstone, the cook, but she had sweet brown doe eyes and a cute upturned nose, an abundance of a heavy smattering of freckles, just like his wife, he thought, idly. Her hair was long, and currently pulled into a serviceable bun and her gown was the staple soft sapphire blue wool that all the maids wore.

She blinked a couple of times in utter confusion. Seeing the towering frame of a rather confused man stood in front of her.

“Your Lordship?”

She both asked and stated aloud. Just as perplexed as he. He could detect the strong twang of her country accent pressing down on her words.

“Elsie. Good afternoon…”

Thomas bade her with his charming smile, though the maid could see she still looked a little lost his hesitant body language added to his state of dithering.

“Um…”

He began politely, fidgeting with his hands.

She tilted her head, seeking the end of such a blatant exclaimation. Her brown brows shooting up her forehead.

“Humour me, Miss Simpkin’s, but you would not happen to know which one is the red salon would you?” He asks hesitantly. “Only I have been away for a while, and, I _ur._ My memory is not as sharp as perhaps it ought be, and I…” He stuttered through is excuses. Drawling off a whole list.

She smiled a little at that… She was too cheeky not to smile. But not mischievous enough nor enjoying the rank of a high station with which to truly laugh at him for it.

“I believe it to be the third on the right, your Lordship…” She beamed.

He grinned. Wide. Stepping aside so she could pass him by and deliver the linens to wherever they were needed.

“You are most kind, Miss…”

He struggled with a somewhat fumbled body movement, before he marched down to the door she had spoken of. But before he swung his body into the room, he paused, and turned back to the young maid who was disappearing off down the hallway, who twisted to face him as he spoke again.

“A bowl of punch for good measure on Sunday not to tell anyone that my brain cannot accommodate room to remember where the damned silly red room was…” He asks her from his position by the door, leaning back to catch her eyes.

“If Mrs Elmstone hears of this, You may be sure I shall be ribbed of it until I am withered and ninety...”

He spoke truthfully. Because she would. The mouthy woman that ran his ovens was so gobby and assured of her station as the most excellent cook in all of Derbyshire, that she could say almost whatever she liked to embarrass him. For she knew he would find no finer than her in all of England. He could almost hear her ribbing comment, of which would be something along the lines of: _‘Pah. You silly sod, fancy not knowin’ where yer’ own rooms are! I’d give my two feet for such a dilema as that!”_ He could imagine his rosy cheeked, incredibly gobby, ruthlessly boisterous and uncouth cook barking out laughter on hearing such a thing as that.

Elsie smiled wide.

“Yes, Your Lordship. Not a word.” She promised.

He smiled in his beholden thanks to the maid, before he pushed the door wide open, and sauntered through it. Thankful to see that the scarlet wallpaper that lined the walls, and the plush red velvet that adorned every piece of furniture, let him know Elsie’s direction had been true. Plus there was the breath-takingly lovely sight of one certain red headed duchess sat smiling at him across the room from the chaise where she sat daintily, awaiting him.

As soon as he saw her, his body just unwound from whatever tension was weighing or pressing down upon him. All his breath left him in an exultant sigh, and his smile grew wider than he had ever known it. So much so, it made his cheeks ache at the severity of it. In an instant he had forgotten everything about his purpose, except for the ardent need to march over there, rip the teacup out of her hands, and kiss and love her til they were both wild with lust.

“I see Wilkin’s delivered my message then...”

Elizabeth smiled as she watched her husband push the door shut, that melting grin growing hot and all the more wide as he looked at her. It was that smile. That wicked breed of grin that only surfaced when he wanted to kiss her senseless. She had been on the receiving end of it enough times to know when it made itself known.

He crossed the room in very quick time, she had just taken a sip of the very hot, and refreshingly strong tea which had been left to steep in the pot as she waited impatiently for him. She doesn’t know why, but there was something so _lovely_ about the comfort of knowing he was near her, in this vast house. He may have been a couple of floors, and several grand rooms away, but she could seek him out just for the mere fact like something so trivial, like, for example if she missed him. All she need do was learn her way around the large manor, and find where he best liked to be, and where she could most likely find him. She adored the thought that they lived under the same roof now. She shared her – _palatial sized_ – home with him, knowing he was near the vicinity of herself, and that warming little thought made her know such sunny and comforting happiness to no _boundaries_.

Elizabeth realized in that moment, as she watched her handsome husband eat up the room in quick strides with his long powerful legs, in fast strides, that he had _missed_ her. Even in the mere space of three hours when they had been apart. And she could not crow too loud, she could declare however, the old ‘pots and kettles’ tale, for she had missed him too. Just as badly as he had, her. She _ached_ for his smile, and the splendor of his eyes, and she simply _longed_ for his arms to encompass her body in their comforting and loving hold.

When he drew closer, he could see that her scarlet red velvet gown was streaked with dust. Probably from where she had been assisting Edith in their task of tugging and sliding books down and off shelves. The result left his wife with stripes of grey dust across her middle, and specks of it on her sleeves. Other than that, she looked as she always did. _Too_ lovely and _too_ stunning to be true.

“I see your indexing books with Edith has taken a toll on your attire, darling…”

Thomas smiled as he got to the chaise. Folding his coat tails out of the way, as he eased himself down, _perilously_ close to his wife’s side.

She looked down at her dusty streaked, scarlet velvet front.

“Evidently. I believe several large and rather shabby volumes of Lord Byron are to blame for the crime of getting me all filthy…”

She explains, trying to brush the speckles of grey dust off her. Speaking in plentiful embarrassment as to her state.

“Oh, that dark and dashing satirical Mr. Byron.” Thomas scoffed in humour.

“Sullying my wife’s good velvet gown…”

Elizabeth could see he was grinning like a wicked sly fox in an old fable, he at least endorsed her the privilege of taking another sip of her tea, before placing down the saucer and teacup. It was only then he slunk an arm about her waist and twisted her to press into his chest. His hands familiarized themselves with tucking back into their well learned position, linked into the slope of her petite waist. Pulling her entire torso to press into his. Crushing her bosom flat to his chest, and just staring down at her with those big fond blue eyes, and that ridiculously and impossibly handsome smile.

“Even when wearing a dusty or indeed, even a filthy dress, my dear, you still look _utterly ravishing.."_

 He assures her in a hot whisper. Elizabeth can only smile in response to such flattery, especially as he then leaned in close to press an urgent needy kiss onto her lips. Of which still held the power to rob her of all sensible thought. She was starting to think this was something which she would never grow used too. How well each kiss of his left her reeling.

He pulled back for a second after he had reeled her in closer, to smile beautifully at her, his brows drawn together in amusement.

“What is it?”

She asked, her face dropping. She had partaken in one of Mrs Elmstone’s outrageously glorious ginger snap biscuits, did she still have some crumbs littering about her mouth? As this what he was now chuckling at? Her hand raised to touch the side of her lips, self-consciously. Her cheeks heating up a little. Did she have something on her face?

He chuckled.

“Your nose. It’s _cold_...”

He rasped in disbelief, leaning close to her, taking her smooth petite hands into his, and leaning in, to nuzzle his hot lips across her cheeks. Making her eyelids flutter shut in bliss as the scorch of his breath heating across her cheeks.

Her mind flashed back to her a little snippet of what they had been doing in their bedchamber, together, the evening last. She recalled how they had been led together, with him bracing his perfectly hot, bare form above her, kissing her as if that day would have been his last. His lips sliding up over her neck, feathering down her collarbone, kissing over her shoulder and making her feel angelic and weightless under such attentions. That was before she was snapped back into reality, when his lips left her cheeks, and started to make their way south, brushing stray hairs out of his path as he delighted in finding the tender spot he knew lay in plain sight on her neck, he nuzzled down into it, kissing her, and hearing her gasp and giggle in the sensations that erupted across her bloodstream like hot fireworks.

“I can’t have my wife getting cold now, can I? I shall have to try my best to _warm you up,_ Elizabeth...” He beamed naughtily.

She would have given him one of her ‘looks’ which told him that he should attempt adhering to propriety, as any moment now, Wilkin’s could reappear through the door frame with the second pot of tea he had been to the kitchen’s to fetch, for her husband when he eventually joined her. But, as she then felt her back thud harshly down to the sofa below them both, she found she did not have the time too, as she was too busy laughing and being kissed. Thomas braced his body atop hers so she had no room to move, or protest. And, she supposed, he was in his own home, after all, she had no right or grounds whatsoever to stop him.

His lips smothered her own as he kissed her quickly, chuckling along with her as he pulled back. Surveying her with humour tinting his eyes and his smile.

“You are a very appalling and wicked man, Mr. Kenworthy.”

“See how remarkably little I care…”

He grinned. Winking. Stroking his hand to comb through her red tresses. Some of which spilled down her back as she was ungraciously pushed onto her back. Belly up, under him. She reached up a hand to stroke over the back of his head, carting through his silky black hair. Feeling the waves of it bounce under her hand, loving how he smelt of musty old books from his study, aswell as fresh clean traces of mint.

“I missed you.”

He spoke up in a perfectly serious tone.

“And I, you.”

She added to that. Gazing up at him, her hand still entwined in his hair as he leaned down and kissed her sweetly again, wrapping himself around her like a scarf, melting into her embrace. Because she had, whilst she adored Edith, to pieces, and they had gabbled away eagerly about the works of Emily and Charlotte Bronté, the notoriously gifted Bronté sisters, aswell as Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Elizabeth Gaskell, Charles Dickens, John Keats and Christina Rossetti. And she had loved every moment of laughter, and reciting their favourite lines from various works, all the while helping sort her feeble collection onto Chatsworth’s beautiful library shelves.

But all the while, she had been pining for her husband’s company. Wondering what he was up to, and if he was thinking of her, as much as she was him. And it heartened her to know that he had been. She was also thinking a lot about their romantic liaisons too, she didn’t think it was possible to feel such bliss as the hands of one man. She realized that she had grown impatient to see her husband again, if but to kiss him. Because when she did kiss him, it was unlike a sensation she had ever known. It wasn’t just endearment to her betrothed, it was a necessity. It was like sating tiredness when she was exhausted, drinking when she was thirsty, or eating when she was absolutely starving. It was an essential thing for her to do. And how she’d _never_ be able to _tire_ of it. And she had also craved him more after what Edith had disclosed to her about the Crimean War, and her childhood.

She’d also given over a lot of thought over the fact that she and him, may have conceived a baby last night. (And a little bit more this morning) her mind added in cheekily. Which she blushed at. And Thomas saw it, his head tilting.

“What is it?” He asks in a smile.

She blinked back up at him, filing that last thought away for another time. She had something else of which she felt she had to ask him about.

“Edith… _Well_ …”

Elizabeth began, unable to continue finding her thoughts when the purely blue eyes of her husband were searching across her face so intimately.

She wet her lips before she continued.

“Thomas, she told me of what happened when her father died. How the both of you fought in the Crimean together…”

She spoke, blinking her big blue eyes at him prettily.

Thomas didn’t meet her eyes after that.

She cupped his face in her hand, sitting up from being pressed back flat. Raising his chin to meet her eyes once more.

“I’m not angered, or mad at you my love. I just, wonder why you didn’t tell me. I know I can never experience anything that comes close to the horrors and agony of war which you endured. And nor can I ever try to understand it, it would be an insult to you for me to even try as such. But I didn’t even _know_  that you had been injured. And to find out from your niece of the pain and torture you suffered through, how you nearly _died_. My love, it _tore_ my heart in two.”

She whispered softly pulling him closer.

She could not believe she had not noticed how badly injured he had been, they had been completely naked and pressed to each other last night. But clearly, passion and lust have overcrowded her senses, and she did not think to look for a scar that marred his right thigh.

He scoffed at that. But not nastily. No. not nastily at all. But in _amazement_ at her. Every time he could believe that she was as  decent, and amazing as she could get. She would go and find some method of expanding on her goodness to truly make him speechless in _awe_ at her.

“I was _ashamed_.”

He offered simply. His voice no more than a hurting hush of a whisper

Elizabeth didn’t know what to say in answer to that.

“Because of John’s death?” She asked.

His eyes met hers at that, and he looked as sheepish and tormented as ever she had seen him. Even when Marcus Burke had broken into the ball, before they had wed, and tried to force himself upon her, and lay false claim to her ruination to her innocence, perhaps the face he made when he discovered them, was similar to the one he wore now. But she wouldn’t have liked to have had the job to dissect which one was worse.

“It was my fault he died. If I had just tried, _harder_. Had I just, taken the initiative, damned my superior’s orders, and combed every nursing camp til I found him, then maybe I could have _prevented_ his fate, and saved his life. But as it was, I was a coward. I gave up at the first hint of confrontation. I should have…”

He stuttered for words, looking back over to his wife, seeing that she was looking up at him with understanding eyes, and empathy painted onto her features, but he knew her well enough to know when sadness and distress was weighing down on her brow.

“…As it was, my actions were the actions of a spineless fatalist. I let them pin a medal on my lapel and let them send me limping home, like a child’s toy soldier. I was selfish in not helping save John. And, the reasons I did not tell you my love, was for the fact that I do not wear my title from the war proudly. I am not one to enjoy the advantage of flaunting it around town like some men do, wearing it like a beacon of violence and murder to gain female attention. That would not only be insulting to those who perished in the war, but to the people who I was tasked to kill.” He swallowed, his voice thick with emotion.

“Thomas. Despite the fact that for your entire life, you have shouldered the responsibility for it, John’s death was _not_ your fault. You need to stop blaming yourself for all the evils that befall the world. Because if you do not, my love, then you will never be able to _live_ with yourself... Taking culpability for all the bad deeds of this flawed world will do nothing but bring you more pain than good…” She pressed firmly, with such strong sense to her tone.

He blinked, his eyes floating away from looking at her own for a second.

“You are, not… _humiliated_ to know you married a man such as me? To know you married a _coward_ …” He asked her.

Her eyes turned a little stubborn and hot at that.

“The very first night I met you, Thomas. From the very _second_ I first laid eyes on you, _you saved me._ You rescued me in ways I could not disclose to you then. But now I can. You saved me from Burke, from being wed into a life of assault and misery. You saved me from dying of a fever in that rainstorm, you rescued me from the damn awful clutches of society. And I can only declare I want to devote the rest of my life thanking you for all the things you have done for me. For giving me a life, a new home, a family, and possibly making the latter substantially more so with our own children. You are not, a coward, my love. You never have been, and you never will be. Not to me. Not ever to me. Not in the eyes of our future children, nor your nieces and your sister. Or even, heaven forfend, your _mad_ great aunt.” She insisted firmly.

He chuckled lightly at that, stroking his hand across the back of her neck as he smiled lightly down to her. She was speaking with such passion and truth, that for a moment, he didn’t dare want to misunderstand her.

“And I know for a fact it is not just me whom you have rescued. You gave Iris, Edith and Judith a home when they needed you more than ever. You spoiled them all rotten with rose gardens, libraries, and playrooms– _rightfully so_ – just to see them _happy._ You took in Ophelia even after she lost her husband out of nothing other than the goodness of your heart, and the inclination not to see her left penniless and poor. For all the times you call her an old dinosaur, or a bat, and though I grant, her wit has deserted her many years prior, I know that the familial sentiment that lingers in her eyes is in fact, pride and appreciation for what you have done for her. And it is not just your own family. Or your own wife who has felt the force of your kindness, I need not mention giving my sister a dowry, and offering her a place here in the summer, and Benedict, too, the list draws on and on, Thomas…” She explained.

He frowned.

“How have I rescued Benedict?”

He asked. So far as he knew, he had never offered his friend a dowry, or a rose garden. He was fond of the man, certainly, but not to that high degree.

“Placing a bullet through the man who had been about to end his life, though I know he is a rake of the worst order, and a rather, sarcastic kind of man. But even I know he must be eternally indebted to you for such a thing.” She explained.

Thomas smiled at her. Starting to see the intelligence in her words. He _had_ saved his Sister, and his Nieces, _and_ given them and his elderly batty Aunt a home. Killed the enemy who had been about to kill his _best friend_ , and rescued his wife from a _fate worse_ than death, a loveless marriage, and _death itself_ as a matter of fact. When she had been hit over the head and injured in Hyde Park.

Thomas swallowed. And watched as his wife sat up.

“To know you may have died on that battlefield Thomas. Even the mere thought of such caused me such pain and horror, I can’t even _elucidate_ it. It was as If someone tugged the world away from my feet, Just, promise me. Please, I beg of you. _Please_ don’t let me ever have _to not_ imagine living without you. Because I don’t know how I will ever _bare_ it...”

She explained weakly, her eyes looking a tad watery and sad, as she sat up and placed both her hands flat against his chest. At even the mere thought that she may have never met him, courted him, loved him and married him, her heart turned to stabbing shards in her body. He sighed, his brows drawn in pain, pulling her close into her chest.

“I swear on my life, Elizabeth. That you will _never_ have to be without me, and I you. Whilst there is breath in my body, I will not be parted so lightly from you, my love.” He promised.

She nodded, slinging her arm about his neck and hugging him close. Breathing a sigh of relief out as they crushed each other close. And when they pulled back after a long moment, just feeling the marvelous weight and warmth of one another under the other’s hands, they remained close, barely a hairs breadth away as they looked deep into each other’s eyes. Her hands cupping the fine build of his warm neck, and his, pressed to her shoulder blades. Keeping her anchored where she was, in front of his chest.

“I love you, Thomas, I will love you for as long as I live...”

She whispered to him, only for his ears, and his ears alone. No other man would ever find themselves on the receiving end of her love. It would eternally be his.

He smiled wide. He could not believe it had taken sharp words from his stubborn and flame haired wife, but finally, he began to see things in a new light. He would never be fully cleansed of the guilt of John’s death. But, perhaps the shame now, had _lessened_ a little. Her words did ring some sense. It was like having a veil which had blinded his eyes for so long, finally being lifted. He had been focusing so hard on the one person he had not saved, he could not see the undying gratitude and appreciation coming from all those whom he _had_ rescued. _He hadn’t seen the wood for the trees,_ so to speak. He thought to himself.

“I cannot even begin to envision a life without you, Elizabeth Kenworthy. For as long as I am, I will love you. Forever wouldn’t even begin to cover it. And not to mention it would be a poor summary to the amount of time I _will_ love you for...” He promised her.

She smiled wide to her heart, who sat in front her. Looking as handsome and as wonderful as the moment she first laid eyes on him, weeks and weeks ago. They seemed like years to her now. And it was near exhausting to think how much had changed since then. She could have sung like a songbird and wept in nothing but pure joy for all that had transpired.

There then came a polite and resolute knock to the door of the red salon. And they unfolded themselves from their precarious position, and looked across to the door, in time for someone’s familiar voice to drift through the wood.

“Is it safe to enter now, Sir?”

Wilkin’s asked to the Duke. Whose face dropped, and shoulders slumped as he glared stonily at the door. As his errant and smirking Butler breezed through it, a silver tea tray held high in his hands.

Elizabeth spluttered into laughter, squeezing her husband’s hand tight in comfort

“You are too used to your station, you know, Wilkin’s…” He mumbled stonily to the elderly man.

Wilkin’s let a wry side wards smile pull on his lips.

“There is no harm in that whatsoever…”

Elizabeth winked to the Butler, sliding forwards on the sofa to pour her growling husband a cup of tea. Handing it to him when she had finished the task.

“Bless you, Mi’Lady…” Wilkins smiled to the Duchess.

“And please relay my praises to Mrs Elmstone, the ginger biscuits are, quite the most _heavenly_ things I have ever tasted.” She smiled.

“As you wish, Mi’Lady.”

He smiled, charmed by her kindness that every servant was busy learning was not a passing trait of hers. Their new mistress was so kind, and gentle, she was nearly viewed as a saint by most the staff already. And she was as beautiful as any saint they had ever seen. That secured her fate as one, wholly.

Thomas glared moodily in his wife's direction. 

“Pray, darling, do not humour such rebellion to your own dear husband...” He warned lowly.

“Well, in such an instance, I beg your gracious forgiveness, your royal Grumpiness.”

She smiled fleetingly, before she handed the heavy and used tea tray back over the coffee table into Wilkin’s white gloved hands. Who smiled wide, before sweeping out of the room. Chuckling softly at his new mistress. As entertaining as she was kind.

“That better had not be a smile, I’m seeing. Wilkin’s…” Thomas warned jokingly.

“Not at all, Sir.” Wilkin’s grinned as he smiled wider.

Thomas’s jaw clenched.

“Remind me why I haven’t fired you yet…”

Thomas called across the room to his retreating Butler who had a spring in his step.

“Because, Sir. I have been employed and served in your family since the dark ages, and I am the only one who knows how to run this Manor most efficiently...” He fought back. Sweeping out of the room, tray held aloft in the air.

“ _Oh,_ that…”

Thomas grumped, sipping his tea before he placed it down.

“A Butler is a vital component to any household, my love, it was _you_ who once told me as such…”

Elizabeth smiled naughtily in a way that made her most alluring to her husband’s eyes indeed.

Thomas lowered his cup slowly, his eyes daggering, hot and wild, into her own.

“ _Enough_ , out of you. Mrs K.” He warned, telling her off.

“One thing you never counted on was having a stubborn wife?...” She supposed aloud.

“… and you were so sweet, shy and saccharine when first I met you...”  

He added. Standing his tea down, looking exasperated.

“It does well to keep in the Butler’s good books, he does run the house after all, as he pointed out so intelligently…”

Thomas turned to his beaming wife, and crooked one wicked brow at her.

“That so?”

He asked her in a low, danger riddled voice.

“Well. If that is the case, then…”

He spoke slowly.

Elizabeth reached forwards for a cup of tea, when she felt his hand slide, twining through her own fingers, and he tugged, and before she could say a thing, she was pulled onto his lap as she watched him grin devilishly.

“…I shall take great pleasure in showing you what it is like, when you have managed to work your wicked way, my Wife, into _your husband’s_ _bad_ books…”

He purred in an impossibly low and menacing voice. His smile, and his eyes were lust. And nothing less.

His mouth, _his sinful mouth_ , nipped its way up the line of her neck, making her shiver and curl into his hard body. And he only paused to whisper hotly into her ear in a low groan that made her tingle all over. Thrashing with throbbing lust that she _needed_ him to sate.

“When does Edith expect you back in that library?”

He asks her pressing a smile onto her neck that could make a celibate nun, swoon in her habit and wimple.

“An hour… possibly two, she was going for a walk out to the wild meadow with Iris…”

Elizabeth explained. Gasping.

She whimpered as his tongue dipped below the neckline of her dress, tracing an erotic flickering wet trail down her collarbone.

“ _Oh, Thomas_ …”

She whispers as he toes curl, and her desire unfolds and unfurls inside her like a flower blooming in the sunlight.

“A whole two hours?”

He asks wantonly, in a lustful tone which told her he had already planned what he could do to her in that time frame.

“M-maybe one...”

She held out in protest, she wouldn’t want to leave his niece unattended whilst her husband did wickedly filthy things to her, to give her such pleasurable euphoria in the damn salon downstairs, in broad daylight, not even in a locked room. Her whole body was now wracking with lust and shivers of want now.

“Well…” He whispered lowly as he scraped his teeth across the divine column of her neck.

“One, is still _quite splendid_ …”

He assured her, sliding his free hand to brush under her hem and skim up her smooth legs. The touch made her jump and moan all in one jerky whine. Little did she know, but the books and helping Edith would have to wait. Her husband’s lips found hers again, and he levelled upon her a kiss that was both thorough and exploratory enough to cost her, her breath in a second. Tugging her closer, his hands slipping over every glorious inch of his wife. His lips went everywhere they could possibly have access too, before they found her soft little lobe again, nibbling on it, kissing the skin below after her spoke, causing her to groan in need, that was, before he shut her up with a kiss again.

“You should make a note to keep in my good books, Elizabeth. After all, the Butler may control the house, But it is I, whom control's _your pleasure_ …” He grinned.

And he spent _two whole hours_ , proving to her, how he was _so_ right on the matter.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 


	47. ~ A Note From Your Author~

 

 

 

MERRY XMAS EVERYBODY! AND PUNK_IN_DOCS PERSONALLY WISHES ALL MY LOVELY READER'S JOY, HAPPY HOLIDAYS & A HAPPY NEW YEAR..

 

x x x 

 

update: for Xmas. This author got a (filthily) dirty benedict cumberbatch limerick book, a benedict calendar. And the box set of waking the dead. Of which series 4 has JJ Fields in it. 

 

I am one VERY happy punk.  


	48. Madame's, Dress Maker's, and The Subterfuge of a Husband...

 

 

 ~ Sir Thomas's Handsome attire ~

 

~ Elizabeth's Dress, (When she does _eventually_ get dressed...) ~

 

 

 

~

 

 

He had been searching for over half an hour.

 

The curse of living in such a vast manor did come with its drawbacks. For one, that it took damn close to thirty minutes to find anybody should he wish to seek them out. Be it staff, Butler, Niece, Sister, Aunt, or as the case was today, _Wife_.

They had again, spent last night rolling about in entwined passion on their marriage bed for many long hours. And as a consequence of his ardor to keep her bare naked form in bed for such a long stretch of time, they had risen quite late again this morning to take breakfast. Then he had to attend some business, and she had said she was going to take a few hours to herself in solitude, maybe even write a letter or two to Mrs Sharpe and her father. It seemed that in the past few days, according to Ophelia this morning, the new Duke and Duchess had spent more time _in_ their marriage bed, than _out_ of it as of late.

A fact that neither the Duke, nor the Duchess minded _terribly_ much.

They had been insatiable for one another since their first night together. Not that they would ever disclose such information, but so far, they _had not_ just confined their amorous activities solely to their bedchamber. As per his rogue insistence, after he joined her for tea a day or two before in the red salon downstairs, they had spent close to two hours making love in the parlor on the red velvet chaise.

Elizabeth still pertained that was _his_ fault – for being so _doggedly_ stubborn about his all consuming passion for her.

And then the other day, she had been happily indexing books in Edith’s upstairs library, and he had seeked her out even then, slinking into the room silently, coming up behind her, his boots not making a noise on the carpet’s, and his clothes barely made a rustle, but as she had her back to him, he sought fit to announce his presence by kissing gently up the side of her neck as her hair was coiffed up. She had sunk back into him then, groaning, before he twisted her body round to face him, tugging the books from her hands, and carefully depositing them to the carpet, using his body to press her back, pinning her up onto the bookshelf, and then _having_ her. _Right_ _there and then._

His mouth hungrily devouring hers, as his hands pressed her skirts out of the way, stroking his big warm hands up her thighs as they tangled their bodies together in passion. Thomas adored how hadn’t _even_ allowed her the time to take off her reading spectacles. And he was thankful that Edith, Judith and Iris were out to Castleton to the local dressmakers, Mrs Landry. It wouldn’t do for his sixteen year old niece to discover her uncle, and her new aunt consummating their marriage up against the bookshelf in her library, in front of all of Thomas Blake’s collected poetry. Their activities even disturbed a few books to scatter from their place on the shelf, to the floor, rattling the bookcase where it stood.

Then, the next day, their husband and wifely activities were no less urgent and improper. They had just happened to cross paths, after Thomas had been in his office all morning, listening to the grievances of a tenant whose chimney needed some repairs, and Elizabeth, whom had been preoccupied by taking a stroll with Iris and Judith through the rose garden’s in the morning, and then helping Judith with her reading and writing, as such, he was just going to fetch a letter from the kitchens, where the post was kept, and she, was just heading above stairs to get a book from Edith, when they saw each other heading in the same direction down the same quiet, and undisturbed hallway.

They didn’t even have time to think about it, nor that there were people waiting on them, they threw themselves into each other’s arms. Meeting in a rush of breath, instantly running their hands all over each other, his caressing her back, feeling down over her supple, so lovely thighs, and hers sneaking under the collar of his shirt as she kissed him like she never would again.

They hungered for each other as man and wife. And It was no shock to her that it was Thomas who naughtily pointed out that they were in a barely used little corridor, which was dark and empty, high up in the manor in a place where servants _rarely_ came except to take a shortcut. And before she could point out that some poor unsuspecting maid could come along and catch them. Her husband kissed her like a carnal animal, and she let herself gladly get pinned to a little alcove up against the wall, and be made love to.

 She had been clutching onto his neck for dear life, his strong hand cupping her thighs in place by his hips, his other sneaking up her back to cradle her close into his body. She had to silence her loud groans of pleasure by muffling her mouth down into the side of his neck. Rocking with the delicious rhythm of his hips as he drove them closer, plucking them apart. Him doing the same, moaning vociferously, he would have shouted and moaned loud had he not sunk his teeth savagely down into her shoulder and her throat to stifle their volume. He found he could not conceal his animosity, he hadn’t even taken the time and propriety to shed her out of her dress, _for god’s sake_ , he was still wearing his boots. But then she mewled his name in throes of passion, and he suddenly found didn’t care one jot.

This may have been filthily inappropriate, and no self-respecting gentleman should ever corner and love his wife in a damn hallway, like they were animals who didn’t know any better. But as his release left him with weakened legs like jelly, and he looked across to see his beloved wife just as disheveled, rosy cheeked, breathless, and satisfied as he was. Her gown slid indelicately down her shoulder by his own hand as he stabbed his teeth to rake down her neck. He could see the fine lacework of her corset, and the coils of wispy red hair that he had rocked loose when he made love to her. Her soft cerulean eyes burned bright and wild with lust, her lips red and emblazoned with his starving kiss. He had been unable to do nothing but kiss her again, and mumble how much he loved and adored her into her ear. Never mind they were consummating all over the house, like rabbits. Neither of them cared. And nor should they.

They straightened up, and on wobbly limbs, returned to their separate duties. The kind old tenant who Thomas returned to in his study, could not understand for the life of himself why the Duke had been so breathless and rosy cheeked. The kitchen was only just two yards down the hall after all… And Elizabeth herself was examined with scrutiny as she returned to Judith’s nursery, to the young tot, and Nanny Lyon’s. The Nanny of whom wondered how she had become so exerted when fetching one book from the library just across the hall. And how on earth and heavens had her hair had gotten so mussed from fetching one book?

Nonetheless, Thomas, eventually, after accosting Wilkin’s, and then Elsie. Even good old Mrs Elmstone, he had then made his way through the house room by room in search of her. The kitchen’s turned up empty, as did the various coloured salons on the first floor. She wasn’t out in the Rose gardens. He had checked with Barkley, the gardener, of whom, also had not seen her. He hunted high and low, sweeping the second floor. That too turned up empty. She wasn’t in the library, with Edith. Nor in Judith’s playroom. None of the maids had seen her since breakfast/luncheon, and he was beginning to wonder if his wife hadn’t just disappeared into thin air. Finally, he made it to their bedchamber. And lo and behold, just as he began to give up hope, he found her. He poked his head around the large door, seeing she was sat with her back to him, by the vanity mirror, looking as beautiful an as flawless as she always did.

She was just dusting a light sheen of rouge onto her cheekbones, when she heard the bedroom door creak behind her. She cast her eyes to the mirror in front of her, to see that the handsome stretch of her wonderfully tall and beautiful husband slid into the room, pushing the door shut in his wake.

“Good afternoon, My Duchess...”

He smiled, crossing the room and coming to stand behind her, his fingers, long and agile, and encased in smooth warm skin, which tickled against the back of her neck, brushing a stray curl of red hair which rested at the nape of her neck. Which tingled in pleasure when he touched her there.

“Good day to you, My Duke…”

She smiled back. Setting down her rouge compact. Tingling with delight as both his hands skimmed down her bare neck, sliding down her shoulders, tantalizing her upper arms as he smoothed his hands slowly down over her. Watching with delight as she curled up into his touch, eyes fluttering shut as she succumbed to him. As she always did. And would continue to do.

“You look very beautiful today, my love. Do you know, I still have to pinch myself sometimes as a reminder that I am luckiest man alive to be wed to you. To wake up to you, each morning, have you in our bed with me, each night…”

He cooed softly, watching as a shaft of golden sunlight bounced in ochre flame off her wonderfully dressed hair, most of it pinned up, but a few curls of it were straying down by her ears, and her forehead, suggesting she had not quite finished with arranging it into a style just yet. She smiled, blushing a little at his words. Before she looked up and caught sight of his wonderful eyes in the mirror. Today her wonderfully handsome and virile husband was dressed in his customary black breeches and boots, with a crisp white undershirt rolled up to his elbows. His waistcoat was one she had not seen on him before, but it was a lovely shade of silver grey, teemed with an impeccable deep grey cravat, that almost took on a blue hue in the sunlight. He always looked so polished and pristine. His handsomeness knew no limits. And his smile and his looks still held all the potency to take her breath away.

“Well. Madamé Làndry is coming here especially to see me today. She should be here shortly. I wrote that I needed a few new gown’s styled for my life as a wedded Lady of high rank, and she wouldn’t even let me entertain the idea of travelling to Castleton, she was most insistent that I was not to be put out. That she would come here to do a fitting, take my measurements and help advise in selecting some new gowns. I rather hoped to have a new one fashioned for your friend, Sir Robert Compton’s ball…” She spoke with the kind slope of her gentle smile.

Thomas smiled, but he could not help voicing one thing.

“And you were planning to pay for these gowns, how?” He asked her.

“I have some pin money saved up.” She insisted. “I don’t need-“

He gave her a sharp look.

“Mrs Kenworthy, allow me to present you with a painfully evident fact...”

He insisted, taking her hand, and watching her come to a graceful stand. Linking her body close to his, pressing his hands into the lovely slope of her petite waist as they were pressed front to front. Chest to chest, as he leered down at her.

“It is my privilege as your husband, to sate you, to be with you, and to spend frivolous amounts of money on you with which to spoil you rotten. Something of which I have not been able to do so far in our marriage. Save for when I brought you some flowers, a book, and an engagement ring.” He insisted.

“All in all, rather paltry expenses on my account..” He added.

“Not to mention a trip to the opera in your box, a wedding ring, plus a diamond and sapphire engagement ring, a night at a country Inn, paying wages for the servants who tend to us, plus the money which goes into feeding me each evening, three meals a day..” Elizabeth continued.

She only stopped when he silenced her with a forceful and hot kiss.

“I am paying for those gowns, Elizabeth, or _so help me god_. I will find a way to make you reconsider, and _silence_ you on the matter…” He growled hotly onto her cheek, when he pulled away and began to nip down her neck, his ardor growing more exigent by the moment.

She gasped in lust at the unexpected yet passionate intrusion he took upon her sensitive skin.

“Now let me think what that could _possibly_ involve…” She teased, pulling her body closer to wind further into his.

“ _A lot_ of what we have been indulging ourselves in for the past few weeks…”

He whispered into her ear with a sinful smile.

“Madamé Làndry will be here in a matter of moment’s, my darling, and I am not yet even ready, nor dressed…”

She spoke through a laugh, referring to the gown she was wearing. It was a dressing gown. Swathing her delectable form in a cascade of supple scarlet red silk. Granted, it was not as seductive or enticing as that infamous emerald green gown that he adored seeing her in. But she didn’t need frippery or lace to make herself appealing to him. She managed to do that _just fine_ without the assistance.

She watched as her husband’s eyes swerved to meet her own. And no look which was as filthy as the one he was now sporting, could be of innocent intent.

Before Elizabeth could point out that Madamé Làndry was most probably awaiting on her downstairs in the yellow salon with her swatches of fabric, and ready to take her measurements, her husband’s devious hands found the bow on her gown, and snatched it open, tearing the gown off of her. Underneath, she was perfectly, and delightfully _bare_. Save for the white lace silk chemise, and wispy inconsequential sheer stockings. His breath left his lungs in a lustful rattle that gave away how alluring she was to him, and how easily she was making his mind wander into cunning territory.

_“Thomas...”_

She warned, as his hands grew greedy, tangling into her hair, his lips scorching in their heat upon her neck, when she felt his teeth come into the fray and scrape down the side of her neck, she knew for certain the battle had been lost, as she too, closed her eyes in bliss.

“We’ll be quick…”

He assures her. Before he tugs the tangled form of their needy bodies towards the bed. Tumbling them both onto the quilts, and she finds herself trapped under the lovely stretch of her handsome husband. As he kisses her in that way he always did. With his whole body. It was in the way he stroked his hands up her thighs, the way his lips stole all her breath in an utter instant, leaving her gasping for more. It was also in the way he groaned her name, and worshipped her body like it was a heavenly privilege that solely belonged to him and him alone. And how he would always treat her gently, but with passion. As if he were afraid of breaking her. But then again, his ardent admirations often got so heated they’d be left grabbing, and clutching at one another, clawing into each other like animals mating. When it became primal, she couldn’t help but adore and love the urgent clamouring’s of his or her own body.

“Oh, god Elizabeth...”

He snarls into her ear, feeling her hips rut against his own, brushing up her rounded thighs to clip into his, causing his arousal to swell into painful hardness that he couldn’t ignore.

“See what you do to me? You drive me _wild_ … I can’t _think_ rationally for wanting you.” He growls to her.

His blood was raging and firing for her now, like hot coals coursing through his bloodstream.

“Oh, Thomas, I _need_ you…”

She groans back in a breathless rasp, encouraging him closer, feeling his hands skim to rest at the wet arousal between her thighs. She groaned and dropped her head back onto the covers below her. Moaning loud for him and for his ministrations to continue. Needing him as badly as he did her.

When he promised her they would be quick. She begins to doubt him when he dives to press his lips into the apex of her thighs, and savour the wetness that awaited him there. Rocking her close to cup the sides of her thighs in his hands. Lapping her up eagerly as she groans in painful need, tangling her hand into his long inky hair, tugging sharply in euphoria in a way that always makes him hiss in pleasure. He growls into her, sliding his hands to cup her closer, and drink her in, his tongue sweeping over her most intimate area in such a skilled way that it leaves her bucking and moaning his name. He swirls, and sucks and nibbles at her until he is assured that her shouts of pleasure are near deafening. So much so, it would have shook the chandeliers downstairs.

After he is sure she is poised on the edge of reaching her release, he pulls back, hearing her whine at the absence of his lips pressed down there, but as she opens her lustful lidded eyes to peer down at him as he looks up, panting and gasping, to survey her, she can see that his arousal needs sating too. And that his lips glisten with the essence of her. He looked like a feral beast to her eyes, like that. He wastes no time in capturing her lips with his. Moaning into his mouth as she herself can taste the wet sweet taste of her on his lips. In a way he had savored like she was the best thing he had ever feasted on. His torso crushed to hers again, pulling her up close to him. One hand strayed to his trousers to fumble about with his clothing fly for a second, trying to relieve himself of the pain of the tightness of his infernal breeches.

But he is in for a gasping growl when he feels his wife’s hand sneak in to join where his rested, groping across his hardness, encircling him in her small fist. Seeing it made his hips stutter, and his forehead drop to her shoulder. He was so thick, hot and ready for her, judging by the way he throbbed in her hand. _More_ than ready to claim her again.

“ _Unngh_ , god, Elizabeth. You make me _so hard_ , I _need you_ , I can’t last much longer…“

He promises as her hand shifts up and down across his stiff arousal. Each stroke from her hand causes a surge of pleasure to buck through him, making his hips leap forwards into her hands in search of more. More pleasure, more delight, more enough to reach his completion. Each word he speaks in a snarling groan, snapping his words, biting them onto her neck as she pleasures him.

“Then _take_ me, have me Thomas, make me _yours_...”

She whines into his ear. Her voice impatient with frustrated need. She was _so wet_ and wanting, it was unbearable. It was an ache only he could sate in her. Her hand was clawing so hard at his back, she is sure her nails left a raking mark down the back of his sublime waistcoat. But she didn’t care. Not one bit.

That was all the urging he needed.

He released himself from his clothing, and sunk into her, not slowly, as he should have done. But in one swift plunge. One vicious surge of his hips. Driving her up the bed into his clasp, making her buck and groan in his arms at the pleasurable invasion in her body. The white hot coil of ache inside her was sated, low down in her gut, but she longed for more, she wanted the delicious friction of him rubbing up against the parts of her that made her gasp in wanton ways. She feels his hips snap to hers, as he drives himself deep into her, parting her thighs wide in his hand, surging and lunging in and out of her in a way that leaves her groaning her husband’s name loud, like a prayer, a mantra of pleasure tumbling forth from the lips in a breathy groan of appreciation. The hand that wasn’t bracing himself over her, slid back and cupped the back of her neck, bringing her lips up to meet his in a sloppy kiss that he snarled into as she bucked into him.

That was before Thomas had the most wicked idea…

He slowed his gait, his pace decelerating to less of a frenzied pace, but more of a languid lunge as he pulled in and out of her, rocking back and forth still, but slower. His eyes met his wife’s as she looked up to enquire through her lustful wild eyes as to ask silently what was wrong, and why he had slowed. The ache inside growing more painful with his slower movements, it was almost intolerable.

“W-what is it?” He hears her gasp in a breathy plea

She doesn’t have time to comprehend their new position, as he switches them round so seamlessly. She cannot help but moan loud and slow at the new angle. He had twisted them about, so that now instead of him being on top, it was her who was. Sat astride him, allowing him to sink so deep into her that she groans lowly at how marvelous the new sensation was.

“I want you to _ride_ me...”

He growls. Looking like an absolute rake with the smile on his lips, and the gleam in his eyes.

Her husband was now flat on his back, sat up, chest pounding raggedly with breath. One hand to the back of her waist, tugging her now to roll her hips back and forth, the other spreading wide to feel across the peachy flesh of her thigh that was spread wide as she knelt over him. Biting his lip in a smile at the sight of her like this. As he had ripped the gown down and off her, now, he can delight in tugging down the thin straps of her chemise, and letting it pool at her waist, looking up, meeting her eyes as he buries his mouth in the supple soft valley between her breasts. Nipping at her bosom, and sucking her aroused rosy pink nipples into his mouth as she rode herself into her climax. Making her throw her head back and moan even louder. Because it was just _too good_ to describe. The all body waves of consuming delight that rushed through them both was far too grand to go unannounced.

His mouth had just snuck up to nuzzle into her throat, nibbling the lobes of her ears, when he looks up and see’s that she is biting her lip, nearly screaming his name in a telltale sign that her completion was nearing too. His was within his grasp, and he would be damned if he reached it before she did. His hands snapped to her hips, his mouth still sucking on her neck, and he fiercely ground her body down onto his lap, making her move faster as he began to feel her velvety wet warmth tightening down on him like a vice. He tugged her closer, wrapping his arms about her, as he felt her legs start to shake and twitch at the sexual onslaught. And he smirks a snarl into her ear.

“Come undone with me darling…” He begs, his voice suffering under the strain of his pleasure. That was before he scrapes his teeth down her throat, hard, feeling her groaning and trembling atop him as he could feel himself twitch, throb and shudder as he spilled into her in a long moan of appreciation, shouting her name as he sunk back down from heaven, seeing that his waistcoat and shirt had suddenly become so tight, as his wife’s hands were fisted into her shoulders, as she clung onto him for dear life. Anchoring herself down to earth, holding onto his divine body, before her pleasure made her boneless and limp.

She released his shirt, seeing that his clothing now sat creased and marked by her grasping fingers, but she can do naught but groan and gulp for breath as her forehead lays upon his shoulder. And all it takes is for his next sentence, panted through ragged breath, to make her chuckle and laugh. Happily giving up the hard fought battle.

“I’m still paying for those _bloody_ dresses…”

He promises, As she felt his hand stroke down her partially bare back.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! 
> 
> \- author
> 
> x


	49. French Seamstresses, Gowns, and Parfum

 

 

 

~ Sir Thomas's Secret Door ~

~ Madamé Làndry’s outfit ~

~ Yellow Salon ~

~ Madamé René Clarisse Làndry ~

 

~

 

A hasty and rushed 10 minutes later, saw Mrs Elizabeth Kenworthy the Duchess of Chatsworth, dressed, made up, and hair retouched after her intimate and indelicate time spent alone with her husband, and she was practically trotting in her haste to get to the yellow salon downstairs, where one Madamé Làndry was now awaiting her, and had been for nearly _fifteen minutes_. Elizabeth was _mortified_ at running so late to their appointment. 

She kept on sweeping one infernal coil of wispy red hair out of her eyes. As her hair had been redressed by her own hands all in under two minutes. She was sure it didn’t even look artful at all. And her gown, which she had coerced her husband into lacing her into, she was sure, that not every button was fastened up correctly at the back. Today she wore one of her less informal gowns, It was a sheer and soft chiffon pink, with a lace overlay, and had slight little lace sleeves covering her upper arms. She wore her simple flat pink silk slippers on her feet, which made next to little noise as she galloped unhindered through the house, holding her skirts in one hand as she ascended the stairs, bounding across the tiled floor, ducking past Wilkin’s, who bade her good afternoon as she _ducked under_  the silver tray of tea he held aloft, high in the air.

She cooed a response back over her shoulder. And another housemaid, whom she had conversed with now and again, Agnes, who was just scurrying across to the kitchens, with a huge pile of washing stacked to her chest, chirped a happy greeting to the Duchess, who gave a smile and a well wish straight back, over her shoulder in a rushed gabble before she skipped off, not wanting to keep Madamé Làndry waiting for another moment.

She threw herself at the door, heaving it open under her slight weight, pushing inwards and throwing her entire body against it. When she saw the middle aged woman the other side of it, with her abundance of fabric swatches, sat genteelly on a yellow velvet armchair, sipping daintily on a small cup of steaming tea, Elizabeth sighed. Wincing as she prepared her ‘excuse’

“Madamé Làndry, tres _tres_ desolé. S'il vous plaît, _pardonnez-moi!_ I am so sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”

Elizabeth spoke with utter sincerity and perfect french as she shut the door and moved further into the room.

“Oh, _S’il vous plait,_ I will not hear of it, _Non._ Your ladyship, It was no trouble at all...”

She waved off. Her hands encased in spotless beige gloves.

“…Your husband even informed your butler to keep me supplied with tea and refreshments until your return...”

She smiled, standing to embrace the duchess in the staple French way. With a kiss on each cheek. Clutching Elizabeth gently by the elbows as she leaned in to embrace her.

Elizabeth caught an inviting aroma of Madame Landry’s French perfume as she leaned in to embrace the woman. It was a heavenly scent. Roses and eau du parfum. Probably some lavishly expensive Parisian artisan scent that was busy taking Paris ladies by storm across the channel.

Because if there was one thing that Madamé René Clarisse Làndry was, it was _fashionable_.

She wore a seamless design of her own, influenced by the very current Parisian style. Lace, and elegance. With the white high collar blouse that ended high up her throat, decorated with a flawless broach sat at the center of her neck. Her matching jacket and skirts were a light golden colour, and the fabric, Elizabeth felt under her hands when she embraced her, was thick and serviceable to England’s inclement weather tendencies, but it was trimmed on the sleeves with a matching ruffle of the same lace that her top consisted of. Obviously it was made to be a matching set. The jacket’s lapels were cut into sharp triangles, and the undergarment was corseted to give off the best revealing slope of Madamé Làndry’s fine figure.

She was every inch the most seductive alluring French woman, she had not a line or a wrinkle by her eyes or mouth that didn’t belong there, nor did it make her look unattractive. She still held all the youthful charms that made her captivating. She had long elegant wavy dark chestnut hair, coiffured up onto her head, on which rested a golden bowler hat, which made her look very inch the presentable business woman. Her face was a sweet heart shape, with flawless skin, and an even more perfect heart shaped mouth, a straight white smile, and alluring almond shaped dark sapphire eyes. She had rouge lightly and artfully dusted on her sharp cheekbones, and a smattering of lip colour enhancing the enchanting slope of her smile.

Another thing which made her sultry was in the way she purred her French accent like a soothing lullaby, whilst fluttering the long wispy and dark eyelashes she had been gifted with. René Looked almost too stunning to be a mere dressmaker, concerned with measuring and tailoring fabrics in some shop front establishment, Elizabeth thought, with her beauty she could be a model for ladies fashion, or on stages flaunting her looks. But knowing her, should she ever hear of such a thing, she would throw her head back, and laugh her unobtrusive and intoxicating laugh.

She wanted to devote her life to helping women look and feel beautiful. She would not wish to flaunt her beauty for herself. She’d much rather share her secret’s with women, both in beauty, and clothing. After all, life was a party, _la vie en rose_ , so it was important to look ones best and savour it as such at every opportunity.

“He did?”

Elizabeth asked in surprise, looking across to the small end table near them, where she could see a silver tray laden with a steaming teapot, a plate of Mrs Elmstone’s scones and jam, and there was even a handwritten note, of which Elizabeth knew right away whom was the author. And this certain _whom_ had also assured Madamé Làndry in the handwritten note that _his_ Duchess would be a few minutes tardy to their meeting as she was _‘busy discussing very important tenant problem’s with her husband…’_

Which ultimately meant that Thomas had planned for his wife to be so diverted as to be late for René. Elizabeth inwardly sighed in smiling anger in odes to his pre-planning cunning seductive nature.

“Oui.”

Rene smiled in assurance as she sat herself down at Elizabeth’s insistence, and the Duchess joined her, easing herself onto to settee next to the dressmaker. Elizabeth folded her skirts out, and gladly accepting the tea that René poured and handed to her, she was a little parched after, _earlier_.

“ _Oh, mon dieu, Madame_ , Are you positive you need any of my dresses? I see you are wearing one of Monsieur Cuvillier’s tres _elegant_ chiffon artworks. His lacework is, _oh_ , _encroyable…_ ”

She assured, admiring the slightly wrinkled yet intricately delicate gown that Elizabeth was wearing. She actually found herself blushing at the compliment. Mrs Sharpe had brought her this gown just last year at a Parisian dressmakers in London. Clearly it was an artwork, rather than a dress, to René.

“Oh. I am. Very much so, Madamé Làndry…”

Elizabeth promised her.

“ _S’il vous plait_ , Mon Cheri, call me René, I _insist_ …”

She smiled, as she twisted off her gloves, and unclipped her bowler hat from her hair, laying it down on the table next to them.

Elizabeth smiled. She was quickly coming to adore René.

“Well. Anyway. I am aware that as Sir Thomas’s wife, the task shall fall down to me to look appropriately dressed, and presentable at every turn as assemblies and society gatherings and such like. But nor should I look too overbearing. I would not wish to give the impression that I married him merely for titles and jewels…”

Elizabeth spoke, watching as René smiled as she scribbled down some of her thoughts and her ladyship’s requirements in a notebook. Smiling in mirth at the last part of her sentence.

“I see, Madame…”

René spoke, nodding in confirmation.

“And I should wish to maybe throw in a few less elegant gowns too? Perhaps a riding dress, and a couple of thicker fabric walking dresses, as winter is just round the corner.”

René smiled.

“Never fear, _Mon Cheri_. Your husband already scheduled me an autumn appointment to come and see you to ready and tailor your winter wardrobe. He is a most thoughtful man...”

René smiled. Tipping a wink to Elizabeth.

Despite herself, again Elizabeth blushed, sipping her tea. Thoughts of her attentive husband making her cheeks pinken.

“Now, back to these elegant dresses. You wrote that you should like one tailored in preparation for a ball in two days’ time?” René asked.

Elizabeth winced, fearing she had been too demanding.

“Can it be done? Would that be asking too much of you, René? Because if so, then I it would be no trouble to dig out one of my older London dresses…”

Elizabeth rattled off. But René’s wide grin stopped her.

“I _relish_ such a challenge, Lady Kenworthy, it would be my utter delight. You would like it for Monsieur Robert Compton’s ball _Oui?_ ” She asked.

“Précisément.” Elizabeth smiled back. “But, how did you know?” Elizabeth asked with a curious frown.

“Lady Mottringham also wanted one of my gowns styled for the same fête. But she is a most _terrible_ woman. _Tres exigeant._ If she could, she’d have me sew the queen’s diamonds onto her dress just to make her look more _, séduisant,_ more _alluring_. Which would be like putting lipstick on a dog. An utter waste of time. But I should put the needs of the Duchess of Chatsworth above hers." René assured passionately.

Elizabeth smiled warmly.

“What did you have in mind? _Cheri_?” She asked, reached for her fabric books.

“I shall leave my preference open to your expert suggestions, René.” Elizabeth assured her.

“I shall _not_ let you down, Madame, you shall be the _belle of the ball_ …”

She promised with a wink as she pawed through her books, thinking carefully about what shade would best suit Elizabeth. Which colour would flatter, and become her best.

“Taffeta is too thin, chiffon would do well for an overlay on the dress, but, _urr_ , How about a silk?” René asked.

Elizabeth nodded in confirmation.

“I think, mmn, maybe an off white would be most suiting to your skin tone, and it would also bring out the lovely firey tones of your hair.” René suggested.

She handed the swatch book over to Elizabeth, who found that the french woman had selected the most deep and rich shade of golden silk.

“It’s lovely...”

Elizabeth admired, stroking the sheer material under her fingertips.

“I have some _tres beau_ lace to accompany it, back at my shop. I could make a _masterpiece_ of this dress, Madame, with some silk ribbon about the waist, I can have corsets of the same colour tailored too. And layered silks to make up the bust, _Oh, Madame_ , by the time I am through with this, it would be worthy for _the Queen herself_.” René assured her.

“I shall leave it in your artful capable hands. There is not a dress you could design, that I wouldn’t love.” Elizabeth assured her.

“Parfait.” René smiled.

“Also, forgive my asking, but, as your confidant, do you happen to have any undergarments which would be at all suitable? Say for, a _newly_ wedded couple? Anything you’d deem appropriate?”

Elizabeth asked in a gentle hush, but her tone was strong. It was just her and René. She needn’t be too embarrassed over what she was asking for.

René surveyed the Duchess with a sultry look in her eyes.

“Oui. Madam. I have the best selection of French lingerie this side of Pàris.” She assured Elizabeth.

“I have nightgowns, peignoirs, chemises, slips and corset’s too.” She assured.

“Throw in a good selection of all. Despite my husband’s stubborn insistence. I shall be paying out of my own funds for the order…”

Elizabeth promised with a smile.

“Which actually brings me onto my second request…”

“...I am your humble servant, Madame.”

René grinned, her deep blue eyes sparkling, her smile pleasant and wide. The Duchess was quickly turning into the most pleasant and genteel customer she had ever fulfilled orders for. She had fire in her too, passion. Something that was rare for women of the day. Especially English women. Elizabeth Kenworthy was, indeed, _different_.

“Do you happen to have Iris, Edith and Judith Thatcher Kenworthy’s measurements on file?” She asked.

“ _Of course,_ Madame, they have come to me _many a time_ in Castleton for a gown.” She smiled.

“I should like to pay for a gown for each of them too. They have been _so kind_ and good to me with my moving here from London. I should wish to repay them with a new gown for the assembly. They are my family now, I am told, via my husband, that one is supposed to spoil ones family. And now I finally find myself with the means of being able to do so.” Elizabeth smiled.

Madamé Làndry nodded. Understanding perfectly.

“Oui. Madame. Did you have any colours in mind for their gowns?”

She asked scribbling down more things in her pocket book.

Elizabeth thought for a moment.

“Maybe, a warm tone for Iris. She has such nice eyes, perhaps a pink silk? To lift out the paleness of her skin, and her hair colour? And for Edith, I think, a blue would become her very well. A powder blue velvet, with a gentle burst of colour, and nothing to overbearing which you would consider for a debutante’s gown.”

“And Judith?” René asked.

“A red for Judith. I should think. Perhaps, a velvet, like Edith’s, then it would do for colder weather...”

Elizabeth spoke up. She had heard the girl going on the other day about wanting to have a red gown, like most other queen’s did. And had admired Elizabeth’s scarlet red gown, saying she looked like a queen too.

“Very good Madamé.”

“And I will take one of the fur collared shawls for Ophelia. I’ve heard her complaining of the cold more than once.” Elizabeth smiled. Looking down in her lap, her fingers still stroking over the golden simmering silk that René had selected for her own dress.

Elizabeth watched as René flipped her book shut. A proud smile on her face, and the hunger of relishing a challenge to tailor four gowns in two days’ time, burning away in her eyes. Here was a woman who liked a task. No matter how big or small it may be.

“If I may, because of your generous order, I will throw in the undergarments and some of my _manifique_ French cosmetics in, free of charge.”

“Oh, _no René_ , I insist on full payment.”

Elizabeth tried to press on her. But the dress maker was having none of it.

“Considering the small fortune you have just comissioned with the dresses, I _shall not_ have it. You shall have boxes of my finest rouges, balms, creams and perfumes, on the house, for your kindness and generosity, Lady Kenworthy.”

René beamed.

“The French parfum I sell, why. It is so bursting with roses, so sensual and alluring. A mixture of opulent fat and unignorableTurkish Roses, notes of subtle French Vanilla, a warm base of Egyptian Jasmine, and Spanish Patchouli to keep them on their toes. Fragrant, seductive, so charming, and so luxurious. Just two dabs on your neck. And your husband, he will not be able to _resist you_. French parfum is the surest way to entice a man. He shan’t be able to stop himself… French fragrance is a powerful mans weakness. By the time I am done with you _, Mon Cheri_ , The Duke will not be capable of keeping his hands to himself when he detect’s it on you…We French know a thing or two about how to allure the opposite sex.”

She winked in assurance.

Elizabeth gulped. She felt her cheeks heat up at the images that René was encouraging in her mind.

She could envision Thomas kissing his way down her neck, groaning at the scent of her, her stomach grew hot when she pictured him ravishing her with furious passion because of the way she was suddenly so enticing to him. René was making it sound as if this perfume would trnasform her into some kind of living goddess whom men would be unable to refuse. She made it sound like mankind would be prostrate at her feet because of the potency of this pefume. She felt her whole body flush with a hint of arousal at the tone of the sultry frenchwoman’s promise, and her tone of voice. Almost as if she needed a cold glass of ice water to calm herself down.

“That is really too kind of you, René. Are you, certain?” She asked carefully.

“For what would I do were I not able to make women look and feel beautiful? _Non_. The smile on your face, and the _admiration_ for the gown itself, shall be payment enough _pour moi_.” She granted, chuckling.

“You are too kind. Madamé. _Merci beaucoup_.”

Elizabeth smiled. Before her attention was captured by the golden silk in her lap again, she could not resist running her fingers across it one last time.

“Do you know, I think this will be _the most beautiful_ gown I have ever had the pleasure to wear…” Elizabeth smiled.

Madamé Làndry looked proud and humble at that.

“… And I am confident that it will be the _finest gown I_ have _ever made. Your Ladyship_.” She promised.

“Would you care for more tea? Café? Perhaps? I don’t drink it myself, but my husband is partial to it now and again.” Elizabeth offered.

“The tea is plenty. _Madamé_. Besides, you have not tasted anything _so_ grand until you try a cup of French café, sat sipping it on a summer’s morning along the Saint du Chappelle…” She promised.

“I should adore to go to Paris.” Elizabeth smiled.

“I’ve never left England my whole life. I’m quite the little caged bird, myself.” She confessed. Standing her empty saucer of tea down.

“There is no better city in the world, than Paris. Rome, maybe. But. Paris. Especially in spring. There are songs written about it, _you know?_ _C’est manifique_.” She told proudly.

“What is it like in Paris? I have only heard stories...” Elizabeth asked. Enraptured.

“The air is full of roses, and spice.”

René began. Looking positively enamoured my the mere memory of her home country.

“You can buy French parfum and fresh flowers on every street corner, and it is mandatory for champagne is served with lunch in some places. You can take in the finest operas in the blink of an eye, and there is no sight like Paris, on a warm, dark summers evening, with a sky full of stars. To see it sing, to see the city so lit up, and to feel so alive. A good city for lovers too. Paris is the most romantic city in all of the world. Not a one comes close to it, and every star crossed French lover would agree with me. _You have not lived_ , til you’ve _been in love_ in Paris”

She spoke with a salacious glint in her eyes when she spoke of the town that made the rest of the world ragingly jealous. Her eyes looked far off and nostalgic.

“Do you ever wish to go back?” Elizabeth asked, smiling in sincerity.

“Sometimes. I dreamt of seeing the Champ Elysees in my sleep when I first crossed to London. But, as much as Paris is _Mon âme sœur,_ I do adore England also. There is such a different style and customs here, it was my pleasure to take part in it." She smiled.

"Paris’s loss, is our gain." Elizabeth smiled.

"I am glad you think so…" René beamed.

“I _know_ so.” The Duchess confirmed.

Elizabeth handed Madamé Làndry her fabric book back. Placing it atop the numerous others which had been piled on top of the table in front of the two women. Sat ignored as they gossiped and conversed avidly about France.

“So. If it is not to bold for one such as me to ask, but how are you settling into this manor? You seem …..Very at ease with everyone here already, when did you arrive?” René asked.

Elizabeth had to think for a moment about that. Everything over the past week or so had seemed to pass her by in such a pleasurable rush, getting married, laying with her husband, making passionate love long into the small hours of the morning, meeting his lovely family, seeing his wonderful home, suddenly growing used to the fact that it was now her home too. It was all such a blissful rush of heady delight, she hardly knew where to begin about it all.

“Um. We arrived, wedded, back from London just this last week gone. But it feels like centuries ago now. I’ve grown so easily used to life here.”

“I bet that is all down to the splendour of your husband.” René winked.

Elizabeth laughed, blushing.

“He is a wonderful man. I couldn’t be more thankful for him. I really couldn’t. I adore him.” Elizabeth spoke honestly.

“And he, _Mon Cheri, Adores_ you. I have never seen love so potent between a man and his wife.” She exclaimed.

Elizabeth beamed. Thoughts of her beloved drifting through her head making her smile and weaken at the knees. She would never fail to soften at the mere hint of her husband.

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door, and both she and René looked across the room on hearing it. Expecting it to be possibly Wilkin’s, or a housemaid to fetch the tray of tea.

“Entrer.”

Elizabeth called out with a soft smile and a perfect French accent, seeing that René smiled to that.

But the door did not move. Nor did Elizabeth hear anyone’s footsteps the other side of it. She frowned. They had definitely heard a knock. But little did both Ladies know, but across the room, a large middle section of the fake bookshelf swung open. It appears, the new Duchess _was not_ aware that the yellow salon shared a wall with one certain husband’s study. And Thomas smirked as he entered the room through the secret door, seeing that both women had their back to him. He tried his best to let his boots make as little noise as possible on the wooden floors.

He smirked, seeing the both of them palpably confused.

“Bonjour René…”

He purred, seeing this caused the both of them to twist around and survey him as he crossed the room coming up behind the both of them.

He winked to his wife, before the sultry French dressmaker gave him her alluring smile. It was not meant to entice him, of course, René just had the most stunning countenance about her. All due to her sizzling beauty that her age had not hindered one bit.

“But you made us both jump out of our skin, Monsieur.”

She chided, chastising him by softly slapping her bare hand to tap his tall shoulder.

“ _Méprisable_ man…" She reprimanded.

Thomas crossed, chuckling to the french woman, and let her place the typical two french kisses to his cheeks.

“It is so good to see you. René. You look _wonderful_. And how is Hênri? I take it he is well?”

Thomas asked with a kind smile, coming to rest down on the setee next to his wife.

“My husband, he is, how you English say, as right as the rain, of which you have far _too much_ …”

She smiled. Seeing Thomas laughed, smiling wide at her. Absentmindedly linking his fingers through his wifes hand, like it was a well learned custom for him. And they had only been married just over a week. He had redressed now in the clothes he had worn earlier – not that he had _taken them off_ – again, as they made love he hadn’t even removed his boots. But his appearance was considerably less rumpled and flushed as it was since she had seen him last. He still wore the silver waistcoat, and the deep bluey grey hued cravat, pinned with a pearl tie pin to look more formal. His sleeves had been rolled down to his wrists. Secured with gleaming silver cufflinks. But, Elizabeth still fancied she could see the wrinkles and creases in his shoulders from where she had clung onto his clothes through her pleasure.

“I am glad to hear of it.”

He grinned. Stroking soothingly over his wifes hand. Brushing proudly over the ring’s that he had placed there.

“I see you wear the waistcoat he tailored for you. It becomes you very _well indeed_. Thomas. And see? What did I say about the silk for the cravat. I was right after all. Do not let Hênri take full control. I am far more in touch with the fashions of today than he is…”

She insisted with passion and confidence to her tone.

Thomas chuckled.

“René’s husband, Hênri Benoit Làndry is the finest Gentleman’s tailor this side of Paris. Just as René here is the finest seamstress that France could ever boast of. I have been wearing his designs for _decades_ , possibly since I was born. But even René has muscled her way in to give my appearance an Artesan’s touch.”

He smiled, winking to the dressmaker, offering an explanation to his wife, who smiled.

“You can do no finer than a woman’s touch. Thomas. Especially where René is concerned.”

Elizabeth smiled across, turning her head so she could smile at him.

“You’ve chosen your gown for Sir Robert’s Ball?” He asked her.

“Of course.” Elizabeth grinned.

“Send ** _me_** the bill.”

Thomas ordered directly to René. Giving his wife a stern teasing and highly seductive look.

“But _of course_ , Monsieur.”

René smiled, and when she caught Elizabeth’s eyeline, she winked. Their previous arrangement still stood. Thomas could without contestation pay for her autumnal order, but come hell or high water, Elizabeth was paying for this one.

“What colour have you chosen?” Thomas asked.

Elizabeth had been about to answer. But René laid a hand over her own. Gave her a smiling tease of a look, before she turned to Thomas and answered for her.

“ A respectable gentleman never asks after the colour of his wife’s gown. That is between _a_ woman, and _her_ dressmaker…”

René grinned.

Thomas’s face fell, and he held his hands up in amused surrender.

“Ok, I desist.” He laughed.

“I was only asking, René, because I wondered if you, or Hênri might be able to tailor me a waistcoat or a coat and tails to compliment my wife…” Thomas asked.

Elizabeth turned and met his eyes with a look of pleasant admiration on her face.

“I shan’t wish to upstage her, not at all. For I know she will look mangificent in whatever you design for her to wear… all I ask is to flatter her garment with my own clothing. I could never hope to upstage such glorious beauty...”

He smiled, purring the compliment to her in ease. Capturing her eyes in a heated gaze, making her feel very beloved.

René grinned at the both of them. Here was true love, make no doubt about it.

“I know Hênri has your measurement’s, I could steal them from him, I’m sure between us, it could be arranged.”

René smiled, once again, scribbling in her pocketbook.

“Its going to be a surprise commision isnt it?” Thomas asked her. Knowing full well the seamstress would not disclose the colour, nor the fabric to him, to better keep the secret of concealing his wifes dress from his knowledge.

“You will not be dissappointed, Thomas.”

She assured with a wide, confident and cheeky grin.

“With you and Hênri as my tailors, René. I _never_ am.” He assures.

“Anyway. Elizabeth. It was _an immense honneur_ to meet you, _Mon Cheri. Un Plaisir_. And I shall get started straight away on your dresses, an your, other requests. You are going to keep me a very busy woman. For that, I _thank you, Cheri_.”

She explained, easing herself onto her feet, smoothing out her skirts as she came to a stand. Clutching her fabric books to her chest.

Thomas and Elizabeth stood, to give her their parting. And she kissed each of them on the cheek in turn before she dissapeared. Thomas moved to open the door for her.

“Oh. Non, Monsieur. _S’il vous plait_. I can see myself out. _Ne t'inquiète pas. Mon Cher._ I know this place like the back of my very own hand. And I shall be sure deliver your order _personally_ when it is completed _. Au Revoir_."

She smiled, before blowing Elizabeth a kiss from her suede gloved hand, winking at Thomas, and then smiling as she slid out of the door and out of sight. Thomas enquired as to a passing Wilkin’s if the carriage could be brought around to take Madamé Làndry home. She smiled in gratitude, happily being led away.

Thomas let her go, giving her a grateful nod. Before he shut the door in her wake.

The air where she had been moment’s previously sung with the vibrant notes of her perfume, the woman was the _very_ definition of _joie de vivre,_ every inch a vivacious woman. Everything about her was passion and life; and this echoed in the way she spoke, laughed, lived and moved, the scent of her perfume, the cut of her dress. René Làndry was an alluring woman. And there was _no one_ who would ever doubt that.

“She is _the_ best seamtress I have ever encountered.” Elizabeth smiled.

“That she is. Hênri too, the best tailor. They make a formidable pair between them. He could stitch and design circles around all those high class saville row tailors in London.”

He smiled. Crossing back to her.

Thomas happily sunk back down onto the chaise next to his wife. Looping an arm about her, both allowing and encoruaging her body to curl up into his. Feeling the warmth of his chest against her skin. Loving how he balanced his chin atop her coiled red hair. Stroking his large warm hand down her arm as she held onto him. Hugging him close, swirling an absent finger over the shining silver button of the waistcoat on his chest. Smelling the lovely scent of her husband that was woven into his clothes. Clean linen, mint and the musk of his gentleman’s cologne. It smelt like home, and safety to her. It gave her comfort. It calmed her, and made her glad for the milionth time that day, that she had fallen _so madly_ in love with this man. Being married to him was _all_ of her dreams rolled into one.

She tugged herself closer onto him, getting the lovely warming scent of him, breathing it in deep, nuzzling into him. relaxing happily into his chest for a moment of perfect solitude with him. They didn’t even have to speak. They didn’t need to fill their spare time with chatter or small talk. They could just, _be,_ together, and merrily so.

His fingers idly sunk into her hair. Seeings as they were without company now. They could relax their rules a little...

He gently, pin by pin, untangled her hair from being coiffed up into a unique and painstakingly intricate arrangement. Pulling them up and off her head, watching as he tugged long coils of red hair, gradually letting her hair tumble down, in cascade of soft red curls, spilling down, tumbling her thick red tresses to her shoulders. Releasing her from the painful stab of her numerous hairpins. He had let a pile of them collect in his lap, before he poured the pile of them onto the table in front of them, running his fingers through the fragranced silk of her hair as she laid close to him. pressed to his chest. Just listening to the sound of her breathing next to him.

Loving how he could detect the alluring pull of her lavender and honey scent which he could always find with his lips, where she dabbed it onto her neck. And the aroma of warming lilly soap which she used to bathe her hair. He tilted his head, smiling in wonder down at his wife, stroking two fingertips across her smooth unblemished forehead. Feeling that her skin was like silk to his touch.

“Tu me rends _heureuse_ , Elizabeth.”

He spoke up suddenly, in hushed French. Smiling down at her.

Her french was a little rusty, she hadn’t spoken it in a few months, but she knew enough o recognise when he purred a compliment at her. which he did. He had just said _:_

 _you make me so happy_.

“Tu es l’amour de ma vie. Et je veux être avec toi pour toujours. Je pense toujours à toi, mon ange, savoir que Je t’aime de tout mon coeur…”

He spoke in a soft rasp. His voice no less loving as he hushed his gentle all consuming affection to her. She could have cried tears of joy at what he had professed:

_You are the love of my life. And I want to be with you forever. I think about you all the time my angel, know that I love you with all my heart.”_

“Je t’aime aussi, Thomas. Je t’aime plus qu’hier et moins que domain..” She hushed back, which earned her one slow and gentle peck on the lips from her thoroughly enrptured husband.

 _I love you too, Thomas. I love you more than I did yesterday, and less than I will tomorrow._ Was what she had said back.

“In English now?” She asked when he pulled away, leering down over her.

“French is far more romantically sounding, don’t you find” He asked

“As much as I adore it when you speak French. I’d like my unbearably handsome English Duke back please..” She laughed.

He nuzzled his nose down onto her neck. Kissing her there gently.

“What did you think of René?” He asked her after a long silent moment. Linking his hand through her own.

“She is a formidable force of a woman.” She smiled.

Thomas nodded.

“The origin of many broken hearts, I am sure. She is indeed a thing to behold.” He offered back.

“What shall we do now?”

Elizabeth asked. “We have the rest of the day ahead of us. As far as I know, I have no other matters to attend too.”

She spoke twirling her fingers down his thigh, not sensually, but lovingly stroking down his right femur, caressing the wound he had shown her from the war, which marred his leg, sat there. She had done the most erotic thing when he had shown her. She leaned forwards, and pressed a dozen kisses to the wound. And he had been forced to do something about the raging boiling pressure of his blood. He gently tore her off, and made love to her all night for that.

“Let’s just… be.”

He smiled, stroking his fingers to comb through her hair.

“Savour the solitude and silence together.” He answered.

She smiled.

“I’ll spend the rest of all my lifes silences with you, very happily.” She confessed.

He smiled, still caressing her perfect red hair in his hands. And none of them spoke.

They didn’t need too. As they had stated, they knew each other so well, that they didn’t even need to speak. They just had to exist. So long as they were side by side.

Together.

 

~

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soppy end to this chapter, I know, I was going to have Judith leap on them both at the end as my alternate. But please, do share what you thought.... too sappy? yes? no indifferent? let me know!
> 
> oh, and have an early happy new years wish from Le_Punk_In_Docs...
> 
> \- author
> 
> x


	50. The Snarling Stranger...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just when you thought all had settled well and good. Thought I'd chuck a proverbial stone into the calm pond...
> 
> \- Author 
> 
> X

 

~

 

 

It was the blowing gale of a cold nights wind, and the unhindered pattering sound of rain stabbing the gravelled ground, that disjointed Theodore Hopperton from peering down over his half moon spectacles at his inventory books for his humble little country Inn. The Dusty Duck. The most picturesque and hospitable guest house this side of Brixworth.

He looked up, his warm working atmosphere behind the grand oak desk, disturbed by the drenched stranger that forcefully slammed the door shut behind him. This was no odd sight. For they often took in the likes of wandering stragglers who came across their path. In need of a hot dinner, and a comfy bed to rest in. The Hopperton's were unfailingly generous and cordial people. In this urgent matter of sheltering poor tormented souls from the perils of the British cold, they would _happily_ assist.

But it stands to reason, that _not_ all stragglers, especially in the case of this one, were wandering with _innocent motive..._

Mr Hopperton examined the dripping gentleman with a hearty chuckle and an empathetic smile as he folded his glasses off his red nose. Examining the lowly looking man with something resembling sympathy for the unfortunate vagrant, who stood, shaking off the rivulets of rain on the doormat that ran in streams down from his tattered and dirty hat, over his raincoat. 

"It is not a nice night to be out _unsheltered_ from such weather. My dear fellow..."

Mr Hopperton cried in a throaty rumbling chuckle, his voice booming and as merry as it usually was. Speaking to the mans back as he did not turn at his words. But rather he stood, if not purposefully, so the Inn owner could not see his face from the safety that the shadowed brim of his hat offered.

"...For the English weather is a cruelest mistress, if ever I've known one..."

Hopperton added. Again. With a merry chortle. As his folded his beefy arms together. Conversing with the dark, muscly stranger.

"I've known _crueler_..."

The shadowy man spat back in a poisonous, dark, rasp.

"I am most sorry to hear of your misfortunes Sir. Now. How may I help you? Is it a room you seek? I'm afraid at this late hour sir, the kitchens have stopped providing hot meals..."

"I don't need _food_."

The stranger bit off. It was at this point, as the man, his face still mostly concealed from the Inn owner, moved closer across the warm foyer, reaching the sparse candlelight of the desk.

"Will you be needing a room, sir?"

Hopperton enquired.

" _Yes_. Why else would I be at an _Inn?_ "

The stranger snarled. But Mr Hopperton was much a far too jolly and jovial man to pay attention to the strangers growls and short temper. He was dressed like a beggar. But he had the tone and precise education to his voice that hinted he had come from a world of wealth and elegance. Though that world had obviously spat him out of its clutches and comforts. 

He was a poor man, this snarling stranger, judging by the battered clothes that clung to him. His waistcoat was frayed and had several buttons missing. He lacked a cravat. And his white shirt was stained, with drink and dirt. His trousers were soggy and streaked with mud. Faded from the rich black they once were, to a musty grey tone. His boots too, encrusted beyond recognition with sticky thick earth. His rain coat, was damp and torn at the lapels. As if someone had tried grabbing at him. The tails too. Torn and frayed as if he had tried to _escape_ from something. His hat too, displayed his obvious lack of fund or decent gentlemanly rank. It too, a wool flat-cap, worn to near pieces, the wool frayed and muddied. Pulled down so low across his eyes. Obscuring his face.

But. It was not Mr Hopperton's place to ask questions. He didn't know where this man had come from. From whatever godforsaken gutter he had crawled out of. And he knew not where this man was intending to head. He could only offer the solace and warmth of his own Inn, to help the troubled soul on his way. If only for the night...

"I'll take the cheapest, smallest room you have..."

The man snapped, and not kindly. Still. The shadows were his secretive ally. All the Inn Keeper could see, were the mans lips. He caught a flash of his elegant and fairly stained, twisted teeth when he sneered his words.

"I'll be needing a name for that room sir..."

Mr Hopperton offered kindly, handing over the book and pen for him to sign. Which the man took, in trembling hands. Sharply stabbing the pen onto the paper, but pausing before he wrote.

"How much for the room? One night only?"

"20 shillings for a one night, single occupancy. Sir"

Hopperton answered. Still unable to glimpse the snarling strangers face in full. And attempts were fruitless. This was a man who wished to remain hidden.

He detested the fact that he'd had to show his face in the society that shunned him. But this was far from London. Far from the social whirl of which he had been accustomed. No one was likely to recognise him here. And he didn't fancy another night, sheltering in a cold, damp barn, that reeked of animal waste.

Mr Hopperton watched as the stranger withdrew a very rugged and crumpled bank note, and scrunched it up, placing it in place of the book where he should have signed his name. As the man had drawn closer now, Theodore could detect the drink on his breath. And soaked into his clothes. The odour of a filthy and unwashed male permeating the air of the foyer. Which had previously smelt like the vase of fresh wild daisies which stood next to them.

"40 shillings. And we forget the name."

The stranger demanded in an incontestable tone.

Mr Hopperton swallowed. It was in his satisfactory nature to please all of his guests. So he swallowed. Gulping nervously. Before he scribbled a name he had plucked from thin air. The stranger looked down to see the Inn Keeper had written a false name of 'Mr Jones' on the page.

He sneered. And it was the only pleasant expression Hopperton had seen cross the mans face. Or what he could see of it at least. Which still didn't venture beyond his mouth.

"Your key, Sir. The room is up the stairs and along the hall. Number 14."

Hopperton offered weakly. Sliding the small gold object across the dark desk. Into the strangers shaking hands. Which whipped the key away. Not even offering his thanks. But he did not move so fast before the Inn Keeper could see that the mans hands were covered in dirt. But also bruised and dried with rusty red blood aswell. Of which he also had dribbled down his shirt. Not enough to cause alarm. But enough to make a gentlemans mind begin to wonder...

"Where abouts are you headed? Sir? If I may be so bold as to ask?"

Hopperton urged. Coaxing out as little morsels of information as he dared. This man was not all entirely as harmless as he may have thought. Upon further inspection.

"Derbyshire."

The stranger sneered. And the way he said it, was as if he had seen or thought of something which made his blood boil. His lips contorted into an ugly grimace as he roared the word as if it were his arch enemy. He began heading away above stairs. Out of sight.

"Very good Sir. Will you be...requiring anything else?"

Hopperton asked.

The stranger didn't answer. But wearily trudged away above the stairs. And as he got out of sight. He reached into his filthy pockets, and withdrew a crumpled parchment of a newspaper article. Of which bore a sickening sight of a smiling couple in wedding attire. A dark haired man, talk and regal, stood by the side of a beautiful, flame haired woman.

"Yes."

The stranger snarled to himself. Smiling darkly, the scar by his eyes jumping as he twitched a dark devilish smile to himself. His dark brown, almost black, eyes fluttered with nothing approaching nor suggesting innocent intent. He was out for blood.

And with the pistol in his pocket. By god. He'd get it.

"A spot of revenge..."

He remarked to himself with a sneer. That was the only reason he had returned to England, and braved arrest and prison. His dirty finger brushing down the photograph in the paper. Skimming over the side of the woman's face, almost in a loving and ardent kind of way, her pretty face smiling back up at him, but this loving sentiment was soon lost as he then crumpled the article into a pulp in his fist. 

 

He was back. And out to seek the sweet bliss of the vengeance he'd dreamed of for weeks, upon the new Duchess of Chatsworth. 

 

 

~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do like to keep my readers on their toes.....


	51. Swordswomen, Blasphemy, and Clergymen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up pops a new, and somewhat *dashing* face in this chapter. And does he take a slight shine to our Elizabeth? hmm, we shall see..... wink wink
> 
> Oh, and p.s 
> 
> rafan4life, I thought of you a lot writing this chapter. Here you go, this is for you, kid. I know you are disappointed with the overall lack of one /certain/ gentleman fan fiction on this site. I make this move and this character to help to even the score a little. enjoy. 
> 
> I devote this chapter entirely to you, you lovely thing.
> 
> \- Author 
> 
> x

 

 

 ~

 

 ~ The Ladies' Picnic ~

~ The View of the House from their picnic spot ~

~ Chatsworth Rose Garden's ~

~Elizabeth's Gown ~

~ I just thought this was a nice visual of Mrs Kenworthy ~

~ Elizabeth ~

~ Iris's Gown ~

~ Edith's garment, complete with book, as always ~

~ Judith's Hair ~

~Mr Everett's Dogs. Casper (above) ~ And Effie (below) ~

 

~ Meet Mr Hugh Everett, The new Clergyman to Chatsworth Manor's Parish,

The colourful and dashing, Reverend Everett ~

 

 ~

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth couldn’t help it. She giggled, loudly, unable to help it now. She tried stemming her laughter behind her elegant pale hand clasped half across her smile, before she started guffawing hooting bouts of laughter that sounded akin to a snorting warthog rather than the genteel elegant Lady of the Manor that her married position offered to her. But it appears, as wracks of laughter and mirth shook her body, in soundless humour, that her endeavour was wasted.

She was currently out of doors. Sat in the wonderful splendour of Chatsworth manor’s blooming rose gardens, the air was hot, uncommonly so for may, which seemed to lift everyones spirits, like every slope of warm sunshine cleansed sour moods and every hint of misery seemed to be washed away.

And what’s more, it made going out of doors just that much more pleasing. The warmth of the sun on her skin felt heavenly, to Elizabeth. So she suggested everyone had best enjoy it whilst they could. And Iris, Edith and Judith had wholly agreed with her. They too now sat on three large shabby woolen rugs with her, all of them bore a few torn holes in places, making it perfect to lounge about the lawn on, spread across the slopes of emerald grass. The air around them was hot, filled with sunshine, and the air _sung_ with the perfumed notes of the roses all about them where they sat.

They had even badgered Mrs Elmstone to pack them a lunch into a hamper, to turn the ladies usual morning walk around the garden’s into a hearty picnic.

Today, as she woke up to see the weather was so fine, She had put on one of her less taxing gowns, but it was no less beautiful, her husband assured her as he watched her dress into it this morning, across the room, from his position lounged across the bed, tangled up naked in their bedsheets from their _ardour_ the night before.

She blushed, and almost believed him as he purred the compliment at her. It was a simple uncorseted garment, consisting of a light ivory chiffon. The waist clung tight to her body, and her hips, the neckline was scooping and wide, but not enough so to be indecent. It showed off a decent and elegant amount of her neck and shoulders. The sleeves ended just past her elbow, trimmed with a dainty ruffle of belgian lace to glimpse across her chest, it clung elegantly to her shoulders, but it was cool and servicable, where the waist clung tight, it flowered down over her body, spilling down her long legs, reaching to the floor. She coiffed her hair up, to be pinned off her face, yet, still a few stubborn strands defied her rule, curling at her nape, the beautiful swan like build of her nape, that Thomas thought, made her look _far too_ sultry. As it was, he would adored to have joined her, but he had a tenant to see, and then he was meeting the new Reverend for Chatsworth’s small, humble little parish.

And so, she had rushed off, leaving him with naught but a chaste kiss, the memory of her smile, and the lingering scent of her perfume as the only reminder that she had been there. She had gone and suggested to her new nieces, and her sister in law, that there was a sunny day to make good use of.

And here they now all sat. Iris, dressed today in a very elegant powder blue dress, trimmed with the same coloured lace at her neck and shoulders, Edith, in her high collared white shirt, pinned in the middle with her grandmothers broach, and a mauve skirt that reached her ankles, her hair, the same as her mothers, the coal black tresses, which looked chestnut in the sun, twirled into a servicable bun. And Edith, dressed in her pretty white lace gown, her long blonde hair left running wild except for the long segment that was tamed into a pink bow at the back of her head. Her dress ended just below her knees, of which Iris had already told her off as she had taken off her shoes and stockings, and proceeded to – miraculously - attain several grass stains to her hem even with it sitting below her knees.

But then Judith made her little pouting face, with big watery blue eyes, and her little mouth wobbling with the threat of tears. And Iris rolled her eyes and gave up her chiding. Focusing instead on their picnic. The sun shone, birds chirped, the air was full of delight and mirth, and Elizabeth looked proudly across the beautiful Manor not far away from where they now sat. Life truly was _grand,_ she remarked silently to herself.

What Elizabeth was laughing so wholly at, however, was the fact that Judith was now challenging her elder sister, to a swordfight, with the giant wooden swords which she brought down from her nursery. Which of course, left Iris and Elizabeth doubled over, clutching their stomachs and laughing like never before, until their sides ached, at the entertaining spectacle.

Judith was waving, jabbing slashing her sword about as if she was conducting a _very bad_ orchestra.

“J-Judith. I don’t think that’s how you- _oh, goodness_ …“

Iris wheezed before more laughter trailed her words away. Elizabeth wiped a tear away from beading at the corner of her eyes. Trying in vain not to let more laughter bubble up out of her throat, that now her smile and her ribs ached.

Her stomach felt tight and cramping, as if she couldn’t take any more hilarity. It was good to laugh in such a way every now and then. If anything else, it was one of lifes greatest joys, up there with kissing the person you loved, a warm fire on a cold day, or finishing a particuarly difficult book. Laughing until the tears came and said laughter morphed into nothing but painful soundless wheezing, was one of lifes _pure_ unadultered joys.

“ _Never_ become a swordswoman Judith…”

Edith laughed, bent over, trying to stifle her giggling, at the determined look in her five year old siblings eyes.

As Edith was so distracted, Judith took this opportunity, to lunge forwards, and stab her sword firmly into Edith’s stomach, as her elder sister, looked down, towering over her as she smiled, seeing the pointed blade nudge gently into her torso. She did so with a happy ‘ _AaahhAARRghhhh_.’ Torn from her mouth at her little victory.

“I killed you. You’re _dead_ now.” Judith happily exclaimed

“ _Very well._ ”

Edith feigned, rolling her eyes.

“You have to die now.”

“ _Okay_ , Judith.”

“That means you have to die..”

“Yes. I _believe_ we’ve established that.” Edith groaned. 

"You don't _look_ very dead."

“Yes, See how very dead I am. Still _enough so_ to make _speech_..”

Edith sarrced.

“Your dead. You died. You’re very _very_ dead now.”

Judith pressed, becoming agitated.

“ _Yes, Judith._ There can be no further expansion on my passing. I cannot get any more dead _er_.”

Edith explained.

“But you’re not lying down. Dead people _usually_ lie down. You must lie down now.”

“ _Usually?_ I don't know of one so dead who managed to remain _standing_.”

Edith explained.

“Edith. You _have_ to _die_!”

Judith warned stroppily. Iris could sense an argument brewing. 

Edith sighed, shoulder’s slumping as she examined the dry grass below her. Before she turned to her mother.

“Any chance of you reigning in the little pest of your second daughter anytime soon?”

Edith remarked drily to her mother.

“ _Oh,_ not a chance. Judith _might kill_ me with her sword, you know...”

Iris answered with a kind smile, wiping away tears of mirth.

Edith rolled her eyes. Batting Edith repeatedly in the stomach with her sword, with every jab, Judith now chanted the mantra of _‘die, die, die, die, die.’_

“It’s _Captain_ Judith. To you…”

A little five year old voice interjected from amongst her _‘die’_ incantations.

“My _severe_ apologies, _Captain_.”

Iris added, placing a sorrowful hand across her chest.

“Would you care for a _new_ adversary with which to duel? Captain Judtih?”

Elizabeth spoke up, with a smile, after taking a dainty sip of the homemade lemonade Mrs Elmstone provided them with. Of which, their picnic hamper, was proverbially _groaning_ with food, crustless sandwiches, cakes, tarts, lemonade, and sausage rolls, and pastries all lay fanned out beside her and Iris.

“Are you _sure_ Elizabeth?”

Iris spoke, her brows drawn in concern, her hand laying over her sister in laws

“Judith is not known for her, _gentleness,_ when it comes to her sword fighting…”

She spoke in a kind warning.

Elizabeth smiled.

“I shall prove a worthy challenger. Iris, never worry, my father taught me how to fence when I was young…”

Elizabeth explained rising to her feet.

Iris smiled at her. Watching the sunlight tangle in her hair, sparkling a firey gold halo off her head, her eyes aglow with enthusiasism and joy. There was no doubt that the Duchess of Chatsworth was finding life here at Chatsowrth manor most agreeable indeed. Iris was thankful, every day, for whatever hand of fate had dealt its way to seeing her and her family having such a wonderful aunt and sister-in-law as Elizabeth Kenworthy. As kind as she was beautiful, and she was stunning. Her and Iris grew closer with every passing day. Dare she say it, they conversed, laughed and spoke like best friends. It was only then, that Iris realised though she loved her brother, and adored with her every breath her daughters, and she missed her husband. She had also missed having a close friend. And Elizabeth was _exactly_ that. Always genteel, kind, and willing to assist Iris in any way she may have needed. Whether it was in tutoring Edith in French after their governess moved away, just this week gone, or helping put Edith to bed some nights when Iris herself was too exhausted. It was so pleasing, and Iris would always be thankful for her new sister.

“You were _allowed_ to _fence?”_

Edith asked with curiosity and a touch of shock. That was traditionally a sport that men, _and only men_ could indulge in. And somehow, the image of their new Aunt, dressed all in white breeches, weilding an épeé, and lunging at an opponent was a sight that she couldn’t quite believe.

“Indeed. When I was around your age Edith my father indulged in my rare wishes to take up fencing as a hobby, I read book after book on the subject, of course, I would be laughed right out of any respectable gentlemans fencing club in London. But, I praticed day and night with lunging, attacking, remising, flicking, parrying. I was quite sufficient, by my own admission. Even if my stepmother did think it showed I was suffering from an affliction from the _antichrist_ when I mentioned taking it up to her.” Elizbeth explained.

Iris laughed, as did Edith. They had learnt from the get-go that the new Duchess was not a conformist to the normality of straight laced victorian ladies ettiquette. She never failed to amaze her relatives.

“How exciting.”

Edith grinned, looking inspired, laying down, her chin resting on her hand, her other clutching twelfth night in her hands. She brought it out in the hopes she would be able to finsih the last few pages of it, and end her grand quest.

“Show me _, show me_ how to fence! _Oh, please,_ Auntie Princess Elizabeth…”

Edith gabbled excitedly. Standing with her sword ready.

Elizabeth gathered her skirts, coming to a stand, sword clasped in her right hand, smiling down at her little niece. Holding her sword aloft. She could feel the sun beating down on her neck, and warming her entire body as she stood, her back to it so she could better see her little rival.

“Okay, first basics first, Captain. Begin’s with your footwork. To give you a more controlling stance. Take note…”

She explained with a kind smile, lifting her skirts a little, to show Judith her white stockinged ankles and her pale blue booted feet. Of which, were stood, feet planted just so, wide apart to give her a more planted and powerful stance. One slightly ahead of the other, her body twisted sideways, arm pointed forwards.

“This is so that you are prepared at any second, to avoid a blow from your opponent, or, more so to give an attack yourself. Which you would do by, _lunging_ …”

She explained, showing her little niece how her body was positioned, rotated to one side, to better block a defensive strike. Judith mirrored her stance, Elizabeth noticed though, that her feet were comically planted so far apart that she could nearly have been attempting to do the splits. As she spoke, Elizabeth bent her far knee forwards, thrusting her sword out to meet the tip of Judith’s, the wood clashing where the fat and flat oak blades met.

“…and then, we would, _disenegage_ , by drawing our bodies back, baring in mind to keep equal distance between our feet as we retreat, and once we are satisfied that we shall not meet with an attack we would…”

“ _Lunge…”_

Judith explained with a loud raucous cry, racing forwards and jabbing her sword, thrusting it through the air, but, Judith’s Auntie went to prove how skilled a swordswoman she was, blocking the attack, batting the sword away, and advancing all before Judith could realise that she had been parried against. Iris and Edith smiled wide, laughing at Elizabeth’s skilled block.

Judith, who surprisingly, did not pout, but giggled at her aunt’s impresive defense.

“Have a care, Captain. You have, _at last_ , a worthy competitor..”

Iris shouted to the dueling ladies.

“Ah, I believe the good captain is the most _ferocious_ blade I have ever been cursed to cross swords with…”

Elizabeth spoke in a kind laugh and a wide smile. The way the sun beamed off her hair and her eyes shone with mirth and joy, Edith thought, was pretty enough to be penned by a poet as the most beautiful sight alive She should be so lucky, she thought, to grow up and inherit such striking and radiant beauty alike that of her aunt.

Elizabeth retreated and retreated as Judith giggled, delivering swift blows, laughing and spinning around, That was, until Judith made one particulalry vicious move, and Elizabeth let her grip on her own weapon loosen, Judith’s parry batting the sword out of Elizabeth’s weakened grip, sending it sailing far away on the grass, dissapearing beyond a rosebush out of sight, and Judith closed in for the kill. Elizabeth faked a swoon, placing her hand daintily on her forehead as Judith jabbed her sword into Elizabeth’s middle. She gasped, before she sunk to her knees, falling in a suspisciously graceful heap onto the blankets just to her left. So as not to muddy her pristine dress.

She dropped to the floor, flopping down, one arm across her middle. The othe braced high above her head. Her face twisted to the side as she spluttered her ‘dying’ breath. As she convincingly wheezed

“And thus, by a worthy component’s hand, I am _perished_. I’m off to the pearly white gates in the clouds..”

She sighed, gently shutting her eyes. Opening them a fraction, and beaming, as she saw Judith loom over her body, sword pointed down at her throat. The reason for her smile, was because, Judith, the little victor, then remarked to Edith.

“ _That_ , Edith, is how you _die_..”

In a perfectly auspiscious tone. Which made all her relatives giggle.

“Enough killing for today my dear…” Iris demanded gently.

“Never!”

Judith cried, running off across the lawns, slicing her sword into the air.

“Judith, come and have something to eat and stop waggling that sword about, you’ll have someone’s eye _out_.”

Iris fretted, seeing that Judith had dissapeared, running around the other side of the rose bushes where she could not be seen from their vantage point.

“Lest you cease now, Judith, or you’ll be hanged for murder…” Edith joked, calling after her little pest of a sister.

“Elizabeth are you sure you didn’t take an acting class in London?” Edith asked.

“Alas. No. But I have had several young cousins visit, growing up. And it is usually best, I learnt the hard way, to let them win _all_ _battles_. And, no. The theatre was _not_ for me. Too much make up.”

Elizabeth japed, groaning as she sat up, rising to sit up once more, dusting off her hands. Accepting her small glass of lemonade from Edith. Iris handed around some sandwiches to them all.

“Elizabeth, I’m coming to kill you again! I don’t think you truly died!”

Cried a little five year old voice from beyond the bushes.

They all laughed.

“That child has an unhealthy obsession with killing and stabbing people..” Edith pointed out in mirth.

“Not a sentence _any_ mother wants to hear of her child.”

Elizabeth remarked to them both.

“Lord help her when she goes on the marriage mart.” Iris remarked in a soothing hush.

“Actually, _lord help_ all the eligable gentleman who are out that season…”

She added. A hand across her cheek as she looked worried by the notion.

“Oh. Be thankful, You have a fair few years before you start worrying about that…” Elizabeth pointed out. reaching out for a juicy looking, rosy apple.

“But not too many until _I_ take _my_ entrance..” Edith pointed out glumly.

“I am positive you will enchant everyone at first glance, Edith.”

Elizabeth smiled, nudging her niece with her own shoulder. Winking as she bit down into the flesh of the apple.

Edith looked doubtful, sat with her knees crossed, pulled up to her chest. Looking a little shy.

“Listen to the Duchess. Edith Thatcher Kenworthy. She is very wise.” Iris smiled over to her eldest.

“Yes. Please don’t make me pull rank and force the compliment on you. I’d _hate_ to do that.” Elizabeth smiled.

Edith giggled, as did Iris.

“I’m coming for _yoooouuuuuuuu_! Auntie Elizabethhhhh!”

Came a cry which sounded much closer than the previous call had been.

“In that case. I had better arm myself…”

Elizabeth spoke to Iris and Edith, placing her piece of fruit down, rising to her knees, adjusting her skirts, and crossing to the nearest rosebush, and reaching in, grasping the swordhandle and pulling it out. Ready to defend herself once more. She walked away from their Punic spot. Far across the open lawn. Near the wild rose arch. 

“I’m more than ready to take you on, _Captain_..”

Elizabeth called into the garden’s. Wondering if indeed, which direction the little one would choose to attack from.

She heard the sound of footfalls, slow and steady approaching her. From beyond the rose arch, just beyond where they were sat. She smiled, tucking her body out of sight just to one side of the arch. Pushing her back against the fragrant pink roses. Biting her smiling lip in anticipation. Hearing the crunch of feet grow closer and closer. When she was satisfied they were close enough, she made no move but to point her sword into the intruder’s path. Hearing them stop with a startled recoil, judging by the way their feet slid on the gravel.

“Halt. Now. Proceed _slowly_ , walk out, with your hands in the air, Captain, and it would do you well next time, not to choose such a _noisy_ route from which to _attack me…”_ Elizabeth grinned.

There was a moment of silence, before a breathy chuckle made Elizabeth’s eyes widen, and her arm sink back to her side.

“I had no intention of attacking _anyone_ , much less _you_ , Madam.”

Came a silky, and smooth amused _gentleman’s_ voice. Of whose voice was almost as throaty and divine as her husbands.

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped wide open, and she winced, as she rounded the arch, coming into plain sight of the gentleman before her. He was a tall man, so much so, with the added height of his top hat, he almost had to _stoop_ to pass unhindered through the overgrown rose arch. His hands were held behind his back, and he looked most _entertained_ by her words.

Because he was a most dashing gentleman _indeed_.

He had flawlessly shaped – almost rakish - lips, which were wide, and caused a dimple in both of his cheeks as he beamed across at her.

His nose was strong and sure. Elizabeth was not really certain if that was an acceptable or legible way to describe a man’s nose, but she kept that to herself. His eyes framed his face elegantly in a most pleasing manner, and, she noted, the further she looked into them, the more she got lost as to what colour she decided they were. Not blue, not grey, and not quite green either. It was a unique blend of all three, as they shone in amusement at her, just like his smile did.

His hair was of a fairly average length for a gentleman. And It was a shade of fair tawny brown, but where he stepped forwards, the sun’s shaft gave it a chestnut reddy glow to it. As stated, he wore a tall beige tophat, a bottle green coat with grey breeches, and brown boots. A uniquely tied white cravat was knotted about his neck, and his waistcoat was a paisley colour, the same shade as his coat. He was of wealth, this charming looking gentleman whom she accosted by pressing a wooden sword to his throat.

“I am _so_ , _terribly_ sorry. I do not usually point swords at strangers. I was raised _better_ than that.”

Elizabeth smiled meekly.

“Well. If I introduced myself, Madam, then your sword pointing would be aimed at a friend, which may make it far more likely that you’ll be _forgiven_ for such a thing.”

He smiled, his hand reaching up to slide off his hat.

“My name is Hugh Everett, I am the new reverend to Chatsworth’s etsate Parish. Having moved up from Warwickshire just yesterday, Madam.”

He smiled handsomely. Offering her his hand, which she took, shaking it firmly.

 _Wonderful, she had just threatened their new man of the cloth with a sword. That, would be a hard thing of which to gracefully live down._ She noted.

“Reverend Everett, It is a pleasure. My name is Elizabeth Kenworthy. I have recently moved here myself. I am the newly wedded Duchess of Chatsworth. And may I just say, in my defence. I am not usually _armed_.” She explained.

His eyes glowed a touch warmer at learning her name.

“Mi’Lady it is a pleasure to meet you. And may I say, you may point swords at me, any time you should wish it.” He smiled. Bowing lightly.

She laughed, he weilded a sparkling sense of humour. She _quickly_ changed the subject. 

“You walked here, all the way from the Parish, Sir?”

She asked, sounding impressed. Most me she knew, her husband being an exception, hated cross country walking. She found it rather wonderful herself, the beauties of the Derbyshire Wilderness far outmatched the few parks of which London boasted of.

“I did, Mi’Lady. I find a good long walk, on days as fine as this one, very diverting. One of lifes pleasures, Is a good long stroll across fine green countryside.” He smiled.

“…and my dogs too appreciate the exercise…” He added.

She smiled, before she saw, that indeed, two long haired, rusty coloured dogs, with floppy silken ears and shining coats lumbered excitedly down the arch way, behind him, lapping at his heels, before they saw her and lolloped their excitable way over to her, sniffing, tongues sloping out of their mouths, their tails wagging with excitement.

Hugh feared she was one of those genteel and prim women who hated dogs, hated the way they jumped, barked, made noise, and got hairs on her dress. But to his surprise, he watched her beautiful face split into a wide grin at the sight of the dogs lumbering after her, and the Duchess of Chatsworth dropped to her knees, stroking both dogs fondly, behind the ears. Scratching their heads fondly, receiving several affectionate licks to her hands and arms. He chuckled lightly to himself in surprise, she was a most uncommon female. She made a cooing face to one dog, on her left, who jumped up and tried to lap a lick across her nose. She laughed fondly at that. She was _enchanting,_ he noted to himself.

“That’s Casper. The old rascal, very fond of everyone and anyone he comes across. And though he was bred to be a hunting dog, he poses no threat to anyone, as the worst thing he’s do is _lick_ you to death.” Hugh smiled.

The other dog, the one to her right, fearing they were being left out of the fussing attentions, nudged their head to nuzzle into the new stranger.

“And that, is the ever cheeky, Effie. She’s fond of chasing the odd squirell or rabbit or two in her day. I tell you know. But she’s still as _soft_ as a pillow.” He smiled.

She rose to her feet, he was even so polite as to offer his hand to assist her up.

“They are lovely.”

She smiled, seeing that he took a small rubber ball from his pocket, and lobbed it far across the lawn, watching the two of them race after it. She chuckled.

“I take it you are here to meet my husband?” Elizabeh asked.

“ Astute. Indeed, I am. your Ladyship.” Hugh smiled.

She smiled, lowering the sword to aim down at the ground, as they walked along together. Passing round the arch, to come around the curve of the rosegardens.

“And please. Reverend Everett. Call me Elizabeth. I am not so stuffy and pompous to demand to be reffered to by my title, and strictly my title alone.”

She beamed. Skimming the sword along the long tufts of grass, As they walked side by side. He laughed at that. His laughter as smooth and deep as his enthralling voice.

“A rarity, indeed. Elizabeth. The last Lord whose Parish I inhabited, was so severe as to being called by his entitlement, that he threw a servant who’d served him since birth, out on their ear when they used _one_ name short of his full title.”

He smirked. Seeing she looked horrified by that.

“That is _despicable_ …” She said, aghast.

“I am to undertsand, from what I have heard of the Duke of Chatsworth, from all those who claim an aqquaintance with him, that he is the most amiable man, this side of London, and far beyond it.” He smiled. “And also that he is as generous to his staff and tenants, as any man would be to his own family.”

Elizabeth smiled, he had heard his rumours from a a very honest source.

“…That is _exactly_ how he is.” She smiled.

“There are also rumours about his wife, too.” He hushed, privately to her, and to her alone.

“Pray tell me, are they horrid? Is she seen as a terrible, beastly young woman whom accosts strangers with swords?” She asked in humour.

“Oh, not at all. The Duchess, it is said, is to be from a well respected and adored London family, and that all of the staff who wait on her, sware by their own lives that she has been canonized as a _Saint_. For they know none so kind, nor beautiful as she. And it Is given to me also, that she and the Duke, are the most enraptured man and wife, since Romeo and Juliette themselves.” He grinned.

She blushed.

“You are too kind in your praises, Mr Everett.”

“While that may be M’am. It does not follow that such praises are _undeserved._ ” He added.

She smiled, widely. And it was at this point, they rounded the huge towering rose bushes, to come back to where her merry party were happily situated, halfway through their picnic. She see’s Iris, with her back to them, as Edith was lost far in her book opposite her mother, eyes downcast, reading along eagerly. And Judith was right next to her sister, busily examining her sword. But as Mr Everett neared them all, as did his dogs. Their barking and running about, noticed by all three Thatcher Kenworthy ladies.

“Goodness, whose are those lovely dogs do you think?”

They heard Iris exclaim to her daughters, standing and crossing, as one, Casper, Elizbaeth fancied, broke into a run, lolloping across to Iris, whom she welcomed to run into her arms. It had been years since she had owned a dog, and seeing one as gorgeous as the one in front of her, made her realise how she had missed owning one. Casper leapt up eagerly to Iris, who crouched, the dogs excitement nearly knocked her over. Judith ran over to join her mother in fussing the dog. Edith remained on the rug, reading her book, but smiling as she saw Elizabeth walk across, her arm hooked into Mr Everett’s elbow.

“Hello you beautiful thing...” Iris fussed to the dog.

“You are _lovely? Aren’t you?_ You are _very pretty. Yes you are_..” She beamed, giggling to the canine.

“Those beastly creatures belong to me, Madam. Watch out for the one licking your hand, for it is the softest animal ever to be seen.” He warned with a smile across to Iris.

She turned back, smiling, if but a little shocked by the resounding male timbre of his voice. To see a more than amptly handsome man escorting Elizabeth back across the lawn to them all. He was tall, very tall, as tall as the height of her towering brother. But perhaps a little broader in the shoulders. He wore a fine green coat, a tophat, and polished boots which let her know he was definitely from money. But he had a humble position. He didn't boast of a lavish title.

For some unknown reason, as he drew close, he was also mesmerised by the striking beauty of the woman who had so admired his dog. She had long, raven black hair, and eyes that could outshine bluey grey gemstones. She was obviously beautiful, but unlike the pure immediate striking power of Elizabeth’s paralysing beauty, This woman’s was subtle, layered into the radiant countenance of her face. The wisdom in her eyes. And the way her smile was not all the way pronounced, a touch of sadness to her.

This ladies beauty slowly crept up on him. But that didn’t mean he was no less caught by it. It was in the way the suns light toyed with her hair, the slope of her surprised smile, and the graceful build of her pale neck. He may have thought the Duchess of Chatsworth to be an utter beauty of a woman. But this lady, she was the most _captivating soul_ he had _ever_ seen.

Iris rose to her feet. Hands fidgeting with her powder blue skirts, as she smiled to their new reverend.

“Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, May I introduce you to our new Reverend. Mr Hugh Evertt. Mr Everett, Iris is my husbands sister, the Duke of Chatsworth’s sister, and my own dear sister in law..” Elizabeth introduced.

“You are to head our Parish, I understand Sir?”

Iris asked, shakily after he slid away from Elizabeth, took her own hand, and kissed it in greeting.

“Yes, M’am. To the very best of my abilities. I shall try not to preach too many dull sermon’s for your delight…” He winked.

Iris’s ivory skin blushed obviously at that. She was about to speak again, when a tiny person shoved themselves in front of her, Iris rested her hands on her youngests shoulders.

“Hello”

Came a sunny chirp from Judith, who stood directly in front of her mother. Grinning up at the very tall man. 

"Hello to you..." The reverend chuckled. 

“You’re _tall_.” She pointed out.

“I am. It is very advantageous, I’d _highly_ recommend it.”

Hugh smiled. Bartering with the sharp willed five year old.

“Your handsome too.” Judith grinned.

“ _Judith_.” Iris chided in embarassment.

“It’s quite alright..”

Hugh smiled to a blushing Iris, who turned all the more redder beauce of the slow melting smile he gave her.

Hugh crouched down to his knees, facing the little one directly.

“I am flattered to receive such a glowing compliment from you. Miss?” He asked.

“ _Oh_ , I _am sorry_. Mr Everett, this is my daughter, Judith Thatcher Kenworthy. Niece to the Duke of Chatsworth. Judith, this is Mr Everett, he is the new reverend to Chatsworth Chapel.” Iris explained.

Hugh smiled, taking in her words. Iris found she could easily get very lost in Mr Everetts eyes. She could not tell if they were very blue, or very grey. Much like her own. She thought idly, and stupidly. And the way he smiled up at her, left her a little warm in her tummy, and fuzzy and empty in her head.

“Miss, Judith.”

“There should be a _Captain_ in there somewhere, _Mother_ …”

Judith remarked drily to her mother, twisting up to meet her eyes.

“I am _CAPTAIN_ Judith.”

She announced, correcting her mother loudly. Nodding to Mr Everett.

Elizabeth and Edith fought not to snigger.

“ _Ah_. Well. _Captain_ Judith. Now I understand the reason that Lady Elizabeth came at me, unawares out of the rose arch, with her sword raised.”

He smiled to the tot, winking at the smiling Duchess.

“ _She did?_ ”

Judith asked with wid eyes and a shocked expression.

He leaned closer, his eyes dancing with macabre delight.

“She nearly cut my throat wide open. She is a most dangerous swordswoman. _DO_ not fight her, I fear she would make mincemeat out of you.” He warned.

“Do you _like swords?_ Mr Everett?” Judith asked, twiddling her skirts.

“I don’t have a strong dislike of any particular sword. Captain.” He smiled.

Judith giggled.

“I meant do you like swordfighting?” Judith asked.

“And, and auntie Elizabeth was teaching me, but I still managed to kill her.” Judith smiled proudly.

“Your aunt bares death _incredibly_ well. Like no other I have ever seen.” He complimented.

“She Is very pretty too.”

Judith added, on a _not at all_ related topic.

“ _Very pretty_ , especially for a corpse..” Mr Everett added.

Elizabeth flushed, even at such a backhanded compliment, such as that one.

“That _is enough for now_ , Judith, we had better let Mr Everett go and See Thomas now, hadn’t we? We might see him again later.”

Iris explained, leaning down to Judith who smiled up at the Reverend, as he rose to his feet.

“I should like _that very_ much.”

He smiled, making Judith giggled. But the way he looked at Iris with gentle yet affectionate intent, made her shiver and her breathing go funny. It was at this point that she became aware that Edith too, had wandered over, finally having returned from the pages of her book, to come and meet with the charming new stranger.

“ _Oh,_ forgive me, before you go, Mr Everett, this is my other daughter, Miss Edith Thatcher Kenworthy. My eldest. Edith this is our new reverend.”

Hugh took her hand, shaking it firmly.

“It is nice to meet you, Mr Everett, _thank goodness_ you are the new Reverend. Our late clergyman, Mr Bryant, was as dull as dishwater. If I ever had problems with sleeping, I’d imagine him droning on and on about Fordyses sermons and be rocketed straight into sleep. I hope you are not of the same boring breed..”

She smiled, seeing this caused him to laugh, most affectionately at her.

“I try not to be. And I must admit, though I am myself, a Clergyman, _obviously._.”

This earned him laughter from the gaggle of women. Save for Judith, who was off playing with Casper and Effie.

“… I too find Fordyses Sermons unexplicably dull. Like an elephant dart to the senses. I had to study it, and just studying it was deemed enough for me to want to throw a copy in the fireplace.”

He drawled lowly. Edith laughed to that.

“Mr Everett, as I was so despicable as to threaten you at swordpoint, allow me to walk you to see my husband. I think he’ll be waiting on you in his study.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“Of course.”

He grinned, bowing to all three Thatcher Kenworthy ladies.

“As you showed such a eagerness for my canines madam, perhaps I might press on your and your daughters hospitality and beg of you to watch them for me whilst I take my meeting with the Duke. I doubt he’ll want a pair of mongrels traipsing through his grand home.” Mr Everett explained.

“We’d be more then happy too.” Iris smiled.

Mr Everett leaned down and handed Judith the small red rubber ball that Effie had brough back to him.

“Give it a good long  _throw_. They love chasing it. It should serve to keep them, and any good captain, occupied.”

He winked. Judith took it, smiling as she tottered away, sprinting across the lawn, both dogs following.

Mr Everett straightened, smiled to Iris, Tipped his hat after he placed it back on his head. And then he wandered away across the fine lawns with Elizabeth.

Iris was unable not to watch his tall frame sway away. His legs swiftly covering distance beside her sister-in-law. She watched the sunlight bounce invitingly off his coated shoulders, and the back of his pale neck where his tawny hair curled at his nape.

“I think he's taken a _shine_ to you, Mother..” Edith beamed.

Iris fixed her youngest a stern but also kind glare that Edith had the urge to yet to master.

“ _And now,_ she chooses to emerge from her book.” Iris sarrced to her eldest.

“He is quite handsome, don’t you think? And funny? Young, for a clergyman. _Kind too_. I bet.” Edith supposed aloud.

Iris coughed, crossing back to the blanket,

“Come dear. Your lemonade will be getting warm…” Iris soothed in a distraction.

Edith smiled down at her mother. Knowingly. Iris rolled her eyes at the look _._

 _Lord save me from impertinent daughters._ She thought.

~

Elizabeth helped navigate Mr Everett quickly towards the Duke’s study. Hoping that her husband was not still lolling about in bed, waiting for her to come back so he could love her senseless, like he had done last night.

“This is the most _agreeable_ manor I have ever come across.” Mr Everett complimented, as he gazed up at the amazing painted ceiling of the foyer.

“I am still adjusting to it myelf. Me and my husband still manage to get lost. And he has lived here for thirty years of his life, whereas I have more of an excuse, I have only been here for a couple of weeks.”

She explained with a smile. Loving how gentle slopes of sunshine permeated the air, and lifted the place up, making it airy and light. Dust twirled in the shafts of light that spilled in from the large polished windows, that gleamed like diamonds in the suns brilliancy.

Mr Everett smiled to that.

“If you’ll forgive me, I noticed that, your sister in law, Iris, wears a wedding ring on her finger. But she did not speak of her husband. Does he reside here? Or elsewhere?” He asked in curiosity.

“I’m afraid to tell you, Mr Everett, but Iris is a Widow. Edith and Judith have no father. Her husband was killed in the Crimean War.” She spoke sadly.

“I know it. I was in that war myself.” He admitted a touch sadly.

Elizabeth looked shocked.

“But you’re-“

She was about to point out, when it occurred to her, he most likely _knew_ what profession he held.

“I did not fight. Though I was a clergyman, I was called up. I was to be a chaplin, for the dying and injured men, I gave them whatever meagre comfort I could before they passed, and often, sometimes, mercifully, they’d live, though sans legs or arms, or their eyesight.” He smiled, Elizabeth could tell he didn’t want to say much more to her, than that.

“It’s quite alright. _I-._ My husband and his best friend fought in it too, I cannot ever know the true horrors of it. So I would never do any man who was involved in the carnage, the dishonour of asking.” She spoke. 

“That is very noble. There seems to be some kind of macabre delight in people honding me for sordid details. Thankyou for being the first understanding woman, Mrs Kenworthy.” He praised her.

“It is just human decency, Mr Everett. You should not feel the need to thank me for it.” She smiled

They had now come to her husband’s study door. And she lifted her hand and knocked upon the polished black wood of the door. There was a moment’s silence, before footsteps echoed across the floor beyond the door, and then it was pulled too from the other side, showing Elizabeth and Mr Everett the handsome frame of her husband. Her blue eyed, tall, dashingly dark haired, overbaringly handsome husband. Who made her happy, made her feel so very beloved, and whom made her feel like a girl again.

“Elizabeth.”

He smiled lovingly, looking across to the man who stood tall behind her.

“Thomas, This is the new reverend, Mr Everett.”

A lok of realisation flashed across her husbands kind blue eyes, and his smile grew so wide at that.

“Pleasure to meet you at last Sir. I am Thomas Kenworthy, The Duke. I trust the Parish and Chatsworth Chapel is to your liking.”

“Inherently so, Your Lorship, And may I apolgise for my tardiness. I was accosted by your wife, and your lively family in the gardens.” He smiled.

“Please. It is of no matter. I was running behind myself.” Thomas beamed, his voice kind and calm.

“Though it was very dashing of Mr Everett to try and take the blame for me. It was I who delayed him. I held a sword to his throat mistaking him for Judith.”

Thomas blinked, there was a lot of absurdity about that sentence to take in all in one fell swoop.

“I shan’t dare to delve any further into that excuse for fear of what I may find. Do come in, Reverend.”

Thomas smiled, opening the door wider for him to come in.

Mr Everett nodded a parting to Elizabeth.

“It was delightful to meet you, Your Ladyship. May I also take this opportunity to say that I have never been threatened by a swordswoman _quite_ as _beautiful_ as yourself.”

He smiled, tipping his hat before he slid it off his head, and marched into the Duke’s study.

Thomas beamed, shutting the door behind the man, hearing his wifes treads fade away into silence, before he had a thought that suddenly _pinged_ into his head.

“Pray, forgive me. Indulge me one moment longer, Reverend, There is something _urgent_ of which I must discuss with my wife…” He grinned.

“Of course, _please_.”

Everett nodded, waving his hand, gesturing to the door.

The Duke slipped out with a grateful smile, sliding away.

Elizabeth heard Thomas call her name, turning about as she watched him sprint, bounding to her.

“What’s wron-“ She began. Tilting her head.

His lips passionately moulding to her own cut her off. His hand sunk into the back of her hair, keeping her near. His other, slunk to her bottom, wrenching their bodies to mold onto one another. Elizabeth gasped onto his needy mouth as his tongue toyed with her own, slipping in, stroking and teasing her, so much so, she forgot how to stand, only able to gasp his name when he pulled his lips away, off her, his breath scorching her lips and down her throat as he pulled apart.

“ _Mi’lord.._ ”

She squeaked in a shocked tone, with a Vicar in the near vicinity, it was nearly as if they were _sinning,_ as his hand grew greedy, groping across her wonderfully luscious bottom, cupping her close to press into his hot body.

He grinned like an absolute wolf. A rakish wolf, at that. She always used his full title when she was shocked by his ardous actions.

“I love it when you, _Mi’Lord,_ me.”

Thomas groaned breathily, nipping down the side of her neck.

“Thomas.” She groaned.

“Thomas, _no?”_

He smiled, kissing her shoulder, nudging her gown out of the way with his nose, like a ruddy _dog._

 _“_ Or, _Thomas, yes?”_

 _'Thomas More,'_ she thinks.

But she didn’t dare say it to him. He needed _no further encouragement._

“I demand you unhand me at once, your scandalous Lordship. You have the patient Reverend waiting for you in your study.” She pointed out.

“I don’t want to _unhand_ you. Matter of fact, I want to do quite the opposite. I want to _handle_ my deliciously beautiful figured wife as much as I am able…”

He purred, cupping all the elegant fleshy curves of her through the thin muslin of her stunning white dress, that she made look angelic and purely innocent, _though only he_ knew what _temptress_ lay lurking beneath it.

“Step back please, so when the lightning strikes down from the open heavens, it hits the _blasphemous_ likes of you, and not me..” Elizabeth smiled drily.

Thomas chuckled out loud at that.

“A parting kiss then, before the sinful likes of me, are struck from this very earth, smited by god and his thundering fury, all for the sake of me, _appreciating,_ my full figured, delectable wife.”

As he groaned low the word _, appreciating_ , his hands did just what his words _suggested._ Sliding down her body, cupping her bosoms, then drifting to her ass, and levering her body to press ever _deeper_ into his hot body in the most sensual way.

She granted his request. Kissing his soundly on the lips, cupping her hands either side of his face. He groaned, long, slow, and appreciatively into her kiss. Stroking across her waist, loving the moments he always snuck to steal with her. of course, they had many moments in the day, together. They were man and wife, after all, but when it was just them, and their passion, together, all alone, it seemed so much more private and indulgent.

When he pulled back, she smiled, stroking down over his roguish strands of long, soft, black hair. Loving how much she loved this man.

“Go and see Mr Everett, before he thinks you rude for keeping him waiting.” Elizabeth urged.

He kissed her once more before he slid away. Back to his study to give his new Reverend his living.

“What a true paragon of christian virtue you are, My Duchess.”

He smiled. She beamed, turning away and heading back to the Ladies picnic, before she felt him cheekily run back over and pinch her ass before he ran away. She squeaked, jumping at his petting attentions. Before she can sidle away, he calls back one soft sentence to her that serves to make her blush furiously.

“I’ll make love to you _so hard_ later, our bed might break, and I’ll make sure to knock that honest good virtue _right out_ of you. I give you my word.”

He promises as he bounds away. Back to the Reverend.

Despite herself, she _smiled_ all the way back outside.

 

~

 

 

 


	52. Bedtime's, Heir's, and Promises...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little short, part 1 of 2. 2 gets spooky...

 

 

 

It was just nearing bedtime (for Judith of course) as Iris was tucking her all too energized little one into bed, pulling up the covers, making sure her teddies and dolls were all slipped down by her sides under the quilts. There were a couple of candles lit about her bedchamber, and Iris sunk into a crouch by her bed, and picked up her storybook. Tonights tale was Collected Fairy tales by Hans Christian Andersen. One of Judith’s absolute favourites.

She adored nearly every story, from the ‘wild swans,’ to the ‘steadfast tin soldier’ she liked them all. And it was just as Iris crouched down, sighing heavily at easing herself down off her sore feet, and rubbing under her tired eyes, that she heard the door creak. And both mother and daughter turned to see Elizabeth and Thomas poke their heads around it.

“Forgive us for the Intrusion, Iris, your Majesty.” Elizabeth began.

“But I believe, we have an accordance to keep..” She smiled prettily.

Iris smiled gladly at them both, and Thomas guided his wife into the room, smiling warmly at his sister, jerking his head, gesturing for her to take to her own bedhcamber to get an early night’s rest. After all, she needed it quite badly, he could see, from the grey hammocks hanging down under her eyes.

“Bless you.”

She smiled, as her brother took the book of her and enclosed her in a one armed hug.

“Go and get to sleep, Irie. Duke’s orders.”

He insists, using his little pet name for his sister, rubbing her back as she wearily clutched her skirts, and sidled away. Rolling her eyes at her twin brother, and murmering the phrase

 _‘As if you’ve never pulled the old ‘rank and title’ excuse on me before…’_ she muttered lowly, in good humour.

But not before the tired woman came to Elizabeth.

“I very much enjoyed our picnic today..” She exclaimed.

“It was _wonderful_.” She smiled, Hugging her sister-in-law, come best friend.

“It was my pleasure. I adored it too. But I must echo your brothers statement. Go and sleep, Iris. We’ll handle the bedtime duty. We are step-aunt, and Uncle, after all.”

Elizabeth smiled, her hands on Iris’s shoulder, or else, were it not for her support, Elizabeth fancied the woman would keel over and flop to the floor. She did look a tad wearied.

“You’re not my step-auntie. You’re my real Auntie…”

Judith exclaimed in a happy chirp from where she was incarcerated below her bed quilts.

Iris chuckled softly. Elizabeth was heartened. 

“I think you are right my love. I concur. Here stands a _true_ Auntie. Goodnight Thomas, Goodnight Elizabeth. Goodnight my poppet.”

Iris called to the room, before she looked back one last time, sliding out of the door, leaving it pulled too.

Elizabeth joined her husband, whom was crouched on the small stool by the bed, and who patted the short one next to him, to get her to join him by it. Which she did, she eased her skirts down, folding them elegantly around her legs, watching their little niece grin happily at them from where she lay, clutching her teddy tight in her hands.

“Right then, littlest Thatcher Kenworthy pest. Which story is it to be _tonight?_ ”

Thomas asked her, flicking through the books pages. The small novel looking completely out of place in his large, all male, sized hands.

“ _Oh,_ I think I know. ‘The Daisy’ _yes,_ Judith?” Elizabeth winked.

Judith giggled, thinking for a moment, before she shook her head.

“ _The_ …. Little Mermaid?” Thomas asked.

Again, she shook her head. Buttery blonde curls bouncing as she did so.

“No.” She giggled with glee.

“The Tinderbox?” Elizabeth tried.

Again, came a little shake of the head.

“Mrs Kenworthy, I fear we have an indecisive little madam…”

“Captain.” Judith insisted.

"Captain." He quickly corrected. 

“…We have an indecisive little, _Captain,_ on our hands this eve

…” Thomas spoke quickly, wanting to remain in Judith’s good books.

“The Steadfast Tin Soldier..” Judith exclaimed finally.

Thomas beamed down at her.

“ _At last_ , a decision is reached. Judith, You woukd make a _fine_ politician.”

He smiled merrily. Flipping to the right page.

Elizabeth smiled lovingly across to her husband. Can it be only just a short few merry weeks since she first laid eyes on this enchanting creature? How could that be so. She felt like they had known one another for years, decades, centuries, even. Here, sat in the half dusky light, she let her eyes gently sweep his handsome profile. His pale skin, made romantically beautiful by the candlelight beside him on the dresser. His hair was swept back, pushed far on his head as always, but that didn’t mean it would obey his rule, a curling strand flopped over his forehead, as his sapphire dark eyes scanned the pages before him until he found the right one, lips softly sloped into a smile as he searched. Was it any wonder she felt like the happiest lady alive? To be wed to this man who would stop at nothing short of giving her the world, should she be so selfish as to ask for it. The love she felt for her husband, knew _no_ bounds. And it rather sated her to no avail, to know his love, for her, was of the same measure.

“Who should you like to read? Beast? Or Beauty?” Thomas asked his niece.

“Beauty.”

Judith giggled.

_That meant Elizabeth._

Thomas’s face fell.

“Straight to the heart, young niece, an excellent shot.”

Thomas whimpered, lip wobbling, laying false claim that she had ruined his feelings, and wounded him.

“Amything to appease her Majesty-Captain’s wishes..”

Elizabeth smirked, taking the book from her leering husband, and holding it to angle into the light so she could see. And when she was satisfied that she could, she began, But not before exclaiming to Judith, who waited patiently for her to begin.

“Now, I do not know I this one will allow me to showcase my arsenal of silly voices, but, we shall have to see…”

She beamed, before she held the book aloft, hearing Judith giggle, and then she began. Feeling her husbands smile and his loving stare burn into her skin as she read.

“ _Here_ were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers, who were _all_ brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon. They shouldered arms and looked straight before them, and wore a splendid uniform, red and blue. The first thing in the world they ever heard were the words, _“Tin soldiers!”_ uttered by a little boy, who clapped his hands with _delight_ when the lid of the box, in which they lay, was taken off. They were given him for a birthday present, and he stood at the table to set them up. The soldiers were all exactly alike, excepting one, who had only one leg; he had been left to the last, and then there was not enough of the melted tin to finish him, so they made him to stand firmly on one leg, and this caused him to be _very remarkable_ …” Elizbaeth began.

Judith sat, happily enraptured as the story went on.

The Tin Soldier went on to describe his lavish toy surroundings, a grand castles, with swans sailing merrily on the lake, but then, then, the soldier saw the paper ballerina.

“….All this was very pretty…” Elizabeth read.

“…but the _prettiest of all_ was a tiny little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she, also, was made of paper, and she wore a dress of clear muslin, with a narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders just like a scarf. In front of these was fixed a glittering tinsel rose, as large as her whole face. The little lady was a dancer, and she stretched out both her arms, and raised one of her legs so high, that the tin soldier could not see it at all, and he thought that she, like himself, had only _one_ leg. _‘That is the wife for me,’_ he thought; _‘but she is too grand, and lives in a castle, while I have **only a box** to live in, five-and-twenty of us altogether, that is **no** place for her. Still I must try and make her acquaintance.’ _ The soldier thought to himself…”

Elizabeth read on, unable to ignore how reverently and ardently her husband’s eyes swept over her at that part.

She went to read on, before Judith’s little voice interupted the flow of her reading.

“Is that how you and Uncle Thomas met, Auntie Princess Elizabeth?”

Judith asked merrily, burrowing her cheeky smile under the covers as Thomas grinned at her.

“He was a tin soldier, and you were the pretty paper ballerina?” Judith asked.

“Not quite…” Elizabeth smiled.

“Though I did take one look at your Auntie Princess Elizabeth and declare to myself, _‘That lady, is the wife for me…’_ “

Thomas leaned forwards, and stage whispered to his niece, who giggled, whilst giving his wife a wink. She flushed at his words. She _couldn’t_ help it. And Thomas could not deny that truth. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he wanted her. Exclusively. In marriage, love, and to give her a family and a home. And so far, his list was satisfied fully with _three_ out of the four things.

“That’s romantic.” Judith whispered back in amazement. 

“Shall we hear the end of the story?” Thomas asked her. “Maybe we shall see the Tin soldier and the paper ballerina marry, and start a fairytale of their own.” Thomas urged. His deep voice, a soft cooing hush.

Judith wriggled down in her bed, merrily awaiting more.

“Then he laid himself at full length on the table behind a snuff-box that stood upon it, so that he could peep at the little delicate lady, who continued to stand on one leg without losing her balance. When evening came, the other tin soldiers were all placed in the box, and the people of the house went to bed. Then the playthings began to have their own games together, to pay visits, to have sham fights, and to give balls. The tin soldiers rattled in their box; they wanted to get out and join the amusements, but they could not open the lid. The nut-crackers played at leap-frog, and the pencil jumped about the table. There was such a noise that the canary woke up and began to talk, and in poetry too…” Elizabeth smiled.

“My what a clever canary. Do you think it would know of any Shakespeare? Judith?” Elizabeth ribbed.

Judith smiled.

“Maybe Sir Thomas Blake? A little Chaucer? Perhaps even the salacious Lord Byron?”

Thomas grinned, playing along with their little game.

“Mama says that Lord Byron is a tyrant. But she won’t yet tell me what that means..” Judtih frowned.

“I’ll tell you when you are older.” Thomas promised, patting her quilted knees.

“How much older?”

“4,272 days older…” He smiled.

Judith’s eyes flickered to the ceiling for a moment, as she counted on her fingers, forcing her brain to accommodate the mathematics of it all.

“When you become ten and seven years of age. I shall tell you what it means..”

Thomas finished for her. Informing her that 4,272 days was in fact, around about, give or take, 12 years.

“I do admire a man with a sharp brain.”

Elizabeth smiled, going back to looking over the book.

“Sharp wit too, I should hope.” Thomas grinned.

“ _Oh_ , for _definitely_.” Elizabeth parried back.

“and a sharp mouth too…” He purrs.

“As long as said sharp mouth can hold its own tongue during storytime, then of course..”

Elizabeth bartered with a serious tone to her eyes.

Thomas chuckled, his eyes warm with the laughter.

“ _You win,_ Mi’Lady.”

“I always do.”

Elizbeth finished proudly, just in time to look back over and see Judith let out a rather big yawn. Her blue eyes drooping as she fought to remain awake for her two fun relatives. For the first time since her Uncle and Auntie stepped into the room, she laid her head back on her pillow, sinking down into her little bed. Elizabeth was not so surprised as to see the sword tucked down the side of the bed with her.

“I think our Captain grows weary..” Thomas noted fondly to his wife.

Elizabeth folded the book shut, marking the page with the bookmark, and setting it down on the nearby dresser.

“We shall finish the story tomorrow eve, then Captain.”

Elizabeth promised to the now snoozing little Thatcher Kenworthy.

“No, no. I’m not, even a little bit, sleepy--.” Judith promised, as she, _ironically,_ fell _even_ deeper asleep.

Thomas chuckled softly, seeing the adorable form of his bubbly, vivascious little poppet, flop her head down on her pillow, dead asleep, as instananeous as if someone had flicked a switch. Or pulled a lever to cause her to slumber almost instantly.

“Well. If I had a long day of sword fighting under my belt, I’d be tired too.” Elizabeth remarked quietly

“Ah, yes. Reverend Everett told me you held a wooden sword to his throat when he came through the garden’s.”

She smiled sheepishly, tucking a stray coild of hair back behind her right ear.

“I’m certain he thinks me the most daft woman he’s ever come across. Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy. The daft Duchess of Chatsworth. Though I don’t care much for the name, it has a certain _ring_ to it.” She smiled.

Thomas beamed at her, crossing to snuff the first candle, across Judith’s room. Careful not to trip over her dolls, he had not been so lucky to avoid that in the past. Judith had, on one occasion, been awoken rudely to the sight of her uncle, stumbling about and cursing, all due to an unfortunate collision, ass first, into her dollshouse. That, had not been one of his finer moments.

“Actually. He spoke very highly of you. He said you were shaping up to be the kindest, and most understanding mistress he has ever known.”

“So it is just I, who thinks myself daft?” She asked him.

“I’m afraid so, my love.” He smiled gently.

She and Thomas, trying not to make too much noise, then snuck out of the dark room. Thomas had snuffed all the candles, and Elizabeth moved the little stools they had sat on, back to their rightful homes. And they peered across at a sleeping Judith one last time. Or, atleast, Thomas did, before he watched his wife exclaim something which he did not hear. But then he watched her, from the bedroom doorway, cross back into the room, and rescue the teddy bear from the carpet, which Judith;s shofting about had knocked there. Elizabeth kindy tucked it back under her arm. Pressing a gentle kiss to Judiths forehead, and whispering her ‘sweet dreams’ before she crossed to her husband, who leant against the doorway, surveying her with love, and wonderment in his eyes.

They slid out, not making a noise, pulling the door to click softly shut, as they linked arm in arm, strolled through the empty lit hallways, back to their bedchamber, Thomas found that he was unable to then keep his divulgence to himself.

“I cannot wait until there comes a day when we read bedtime stories to our own children.” He smiled gently, holding her close, nuzzling his words into her neck.

“A little boy, or a little girl, I don’t care which. I’ll be over the moon with either. A little Kenworthy all of our own, with your lovely red hair, and our blue eyes…” He dreamed.

“Growing up, and one day being able to run literal _rings_ about his or her dear, poor, tired parents..” He fancied.

He would have been an idiot, of colossal proportions, had he missed the slight look of anxiousness that wrung his wifes face after his words, right then.

“My darling, what is it?” He asked, brows drawn, eyes kind.

“It’s just – we’ve..” She stammered, unsure of how to approach this.

She made the both of them stop. Turning to look up at him, face set in pain and worry as she spoke.

“I am not so green, nor innocent, to not know that what we have been _doing_ , _a lot of_ , for the past week or so, is more than _amptly_ enough to produce atleast _a_ baby. And yet.. _I, haven’t_. atleast, not yet, and I just cannot help but think-“

Thomas’s fingers across her lips halted her speech.

“Elizabeth..” He cooed. Urging her to stop.

“ _Something might be wrong.._ ”

She whispered. And the way she whispered it hurt his heart. Because she said it like it was her worst fear, come true.

“It will not be instananeous. My love. It may take time, and, _believe me…”_

He purred, his voice dropping to illegally sinful registers. His eyes brightened, and darkened at the same time, with lust, as he spoke.

“… I am perfectly willing to keep trying. Now, I will let you see the most overpriced, pompous, and best physicians in all of the British Isles should you so wish, If your worry continues to ail you. But my love, for now. Please _, do not fret_ , you have _no_ cause to do so. I assure you. If we have not done so yet, then we will try and try again for as long as is necessary... And I am not just saying that because I would crawl a million miles on my hands and knees on broken glass to make love to you, but because if my Duchess wants a baby. I’ll pluck the moon from the sky, or move to earth, to give her a baby. _Our baby_.”

He spoke gently, one hand cupping her neck, the other resting soothingly on her lower tummy. Stroking where he knew, in time, their future child would grow.

 _The little pitter patter of tiny Kenworthy feet, now that did sound nice_ , Elizabeth thought to herself.

She sighed. Slumping forwards into the reliable frame of her handsome, tall husband. Who tucked his arms about her.

“Now I really was being daft, wasn’t I?” She asked.

He chuckled, and she felt the dark sound rumble through her own body.

“ _Not at all_. My heart. You were being _you_. Caring, and thoughtful. The same _lovely_ creature with whom I fell in love, and married. With exactly the traits I married her for.”

He smiled. Pressing a kiss to the top of her soft, fiery hair.

“I just, I had a feeling when we produced our first child, that I would know of it. I would know of it _so strongly,_ that nothing else would matter.”

“That day will come, I assure you. And I can also assure you, that it will be in the not too distant future…”

Thomas winked. It was only then Elizabeth realised, he had pulled her close by her arm, urging her to join him in their bedroom doorway. She giggled, stupidly, as he pressed his hot body into her own, molding their forms to one. As they always wished to be joined. As one.

His hands were sinking all over her body, delighting in the sensation that every curve of hers offered to him. Supple, full figured, rounded, and marvellous. She was a goddess under his hands. And when his lips nipped merrily down her neck, giving her gooseflesh from his blistering breath, only then, did she truly feel as such. No other man could make her feel this grand, this _alive._

“Now…”

He growled lowly, his tongue toying with her ear, She smiled, hearing as he practically threw the door to slam shut after them, launching both their bodies onto the dark bed, tangled up together, lust firing through their limbs and their blood. Hot, and unignorable. Making love, wasn’t a fancy. It was _a need._ A _carnal_ need that consumed them both. And gave no quarter. Whatsoever.

Elizabeth gasped as he took the shoulders of her gown, and tugged, until he heard something rip. Exposing at once, to his preying eyes, her naked chest. Rosy nipples standing to attention as her chest heaved for breath. _He loved_ that she didn’t wear a chemise under her dress today, in the sticky heat of the warm sun. Less to shed her out of.

He looked, well, apart from the fact he looked like a dark, hungry wolf, he looked rather satisfied with himself.

“..What was that I said about _pounding_ the good honest christian virtue right out of you?” He purred loudly.

She bit her lip, his hands pushed her skirts up to her middle, her struggling not to moan as he curled her thigh up over his shoulder and did exactly as he had promised.

And, he was a true to his word man.

They did _break the bed, a little,_ after all.

 

 

 

~


	53. Figures, Windows and Furious Dukes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of 2. Danger lingers a little too close to home for comfort...

 

 

 

 

 

It was the sound of shattering glass that woke her.

 

Elizabeth’s eyes jerked open, hearing the horrible, clinking, crunching sound that could only ever be the sound of glass being broken.

Her eyes swept across her and her husbands dark bedchamber. It was still dark out. The warm day had long since run off, leaving in it’s place, only a chilly night. She tried not to breathe too heavily, for fear of waking Thomas. He was deep asleep, next to her, thankfully, facing away from her. His chest still bare, and one long fingered hand splayed wide across his pale naked stomach. She knew he was a heavy sleeper. Bt she couldn’t quite bring herself to _shake him awake_. Her curiosity was _far_ too piqued.

More importantly, it was the sound of a _window,_ being _destroyed_. And by the way she could also hear the crunch and grate of boots scuff against the gravel, That told her enough to know it was being broken from the outside, by someone trying to _get in._

It was downstairs, on the first floor. The reason she could hear it, was because it was the room right below their window, the corridor along to the ground floor library, looking out across the gravel drive, and the lawn. A gasp tore from her lips, her body froze, terrified, as she listened out for any more sounds of the trespasser attempting to gain entry to their home.

And she did, she heard the sound again, softer, quieter, but it was the same glass breaking sound. Defying the still night. Cutting through the once peaceful quiet of the dark air. It replaced the once gentle flutter of wind, brushing against the house, the odd fox scurrying about in the gardens, crying out. The sound of the very same night breeze rustling and ruffling the great bursts of leaves on the trees not far from the side of the house. But now, everything seemed lost to her ears. All she could listen for, was the sound of that glass being crushed.

She sits up, slowly, snapping herself from the stupors of sleep, and into the terrible actuality that someone was trying to get into their home. She gently eased the warm covers of her naked self, and padded, so noiselessly, it was remarkable, across the room. Gently levering open a drawer, and hastily yanking on a plain, yet thick, cotton white nightdress that reached her ankles. The neckline was so wide it hung off one shoulder, and the sleeves ended only at her elbow, so she pulled on her warmest blue gown also. She silently slipped on her dainty slippers, and padded out of the room as fast as she could without wanting to make a great deal of noise.

As soon as she got out into the dark hallway, she crossed, bathed in moonlight from the open window, and with shaking hands, fumbled about in the antique chest of drawers, finding a candle and a brass holder, and eventually, her hands stopped trembling enough to light it. She didn’t want to risk turning the lights on in the halls, for fear the intruder might scarper without her catching who he, or she was. Then a horrible thought occurs. _What if there was more than one person?_ She wasn’t _very strong_ , she could run the risk of being _outmatched, and then what?_

She pushes the frightening thought away.

Having lit the candle, she proceeds as quickly, and as inaudibly as her feet could take her, rapidly striding through the house, picking her careful way down the twisting staircase, taking a shortcut, mindful not to trip, the narrow stairs only mildly lit by the foggy glow of one lone candle. She makes it to the second floor, and she nearly sprints along the dark, moonlight drenched hallway in no time at all. Coming to the grand stairs, that will lead her straight down to the first floor. She makes her way, her skirts barely whisking a whisper on the cold tiled floors. Her breath coming shakily now, and her stomach felt lead lined with terror and fear. And she felt cold too. Her hands were ice. But she paid that no mind right now.

She slammed her feet down each step, she was getting closer to the intruder. And for some unknown reason, she was getting more curious. Which, occurred to her, could potentially be a _very_ dangerous thing. The devious side of her brain, teaming up with the rational and angered side of her head, that told her she was furious and angered at someone attempting to break into her families new home. It filled her with an odd sense of righteousness and rage.

She was moving quickly now, her hair flying behind her, sailing out in a cascade of red curls, framed by slivers of moonlight tangling into her hair. Her gown billowed out behind her, and her spare hand picked up her skirts. Raising them to nearly sit above her calves, but she didn’t give _one shred_ of care to propriety right now. As she knows she should. She should, as a married lady, set a decent example. But her brain snaps that caring so much about the proper height for ones skirts, paled in significance when reminding her that a burglar was now attempting to get into her home, and steal something, or worse, hurt someone. Just the thought of someone laying their hands in violent upon anyone in this house, little Judith, sweet Edith, Iris even, or her husband. It made her see _red._

She eventually comes to the front hall, knowing now that only a corner sat between her and the offender. She could hear them, _so horrifyingly close now_ , grunting as they moved themselves into the house. Climbing in through the window they had broken. She panted breath, trying to remind herself to breath quietly. So as not to give herself away.

But then, her blood fired.

She had a burst of enraging courage. An insane attack of maddening boldness that made her steel herself tall, chin held high, she rounded that corner and came face to face with the dark distinct shape of a tall figure, dressed all in black, complete with the sweep of a cape swathing their body, but she knew enough to recognise the stocky muscled frame of a man when she saw one. His hat was pulled low over his face, and the shadow that came from the brim masked any features she could spot. And his hands were gloved, he was dressed head to toe in black.

“ _STOP!_ ”

She shouted with a snarl to her voice.

They did. They paused. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were looking at her, or not. But she could almost feel an acidic glare sweep across her. As if, somehow, they were familiar to her. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She wished it was a _less unsettling_ sensation.

She took one step towards them.

And that was when they bolted.

Quicker than a cat, the agile figure swung his one leg that he braced inside the house, whipping it away, she ran to the window, but by that time, he had torn his body away, boots crunching as he ran away, back down the drive. Presumably where he had come from. As he did though, Elizabeth heard him cry and curse, he had cut his hand, even through his leather gloves, he still managed to cut his hand open on a jagged stub of glass on the window pane. She saw the blood tipped on the glass, leaking down the pane.

But however fast he could be, she could be _equally_ as quick.

She tore through the hallway, coming through an arch, her slippered feet slapping the tiles as she broke into a run. She becomes vaguely aware she had let the candle clatter to the floor, extinguishing it in a puff of smoke. As the bronze holder rattled across the wooden floorboards. She didn't care about light now. Her eyes adjusted to the door, she came through the arch to the front door, and with all her might, heaved the front door, pulling inwards to open it. She barely made enough room for herself to slip out, and she was then tearing down the gravel drive, after the assailant.

She didn't care if she was slower in these damn infernal skirts, her hair had some curls whipping at her face. Her skirts were bunched nearly at her knees now as she held them in order to run faster. Her feet jarred with every thud as she ran to keep pace with him. The cooler night air burning her skin. Her lungs beginning to strain, burn and burst with the horrible choking feeling that suffocated her chest as she sprinted along.

She watched him come to the hedges, the maze to the front lawn. Not a maze in the strictest sense, but it was still a twisting labyrinth of high hedges that led to the orchard, the woods to the far right of the house. He cut a sharp right, branches and twigs hitting at him as he skirted past them. Tearing into him. Doing the same to her when she pursued him not long after. The sight before he was undoubtedly eerie. A light mist lapped at both their ankles, and made their surroundings seem all the more sinister. She nearly tripped, gasping as her feet slid on a patch of slippery green grass. Skidding on the mud, nearly tumbling, sprawled out onto the lawn. As it turns out, her nearly tumbling to her knees, costs her. She picked herself up, scrambling forwards, only to see that he was too far ahead for her to catch up. Though she could still see the mist roll over his figure as he ran, gaining distance further and further from her.

She grits her teeth, yanking her skirts up higher, and perfectly ready to run some more. Panting and snarling, ready to lurch into a breakneck run, her breath ghosting up out of her mouth before her in a white mist.

But something firm and hard from behind yanks on her arm, the grip is like iron and she is torn about, nearly shrieking, to see the more than angry frame of her husband. His eyes narrowed into acidic slits, his teeth clenched, jaw resolute, and the glare he snarled her way would have rivalled frost in winter.

“What the _bloody hell_ are you playing at? How _bloody dare you, you…”_

So angry he couldn't even form speech. He then snapped out a large following string of expletives that would have made any sailor proud. In the hand that wasn’t burning his strong grip into her skin, he held a lantern.

 _“… What on earth possessed you to_ go outside, alone, at this time of night, It is nearly four in the morning, _Elizabeth, how could_ you-”

He snarled at her, and his voice was lower than she had ever heard it. She knew, in that moment, how truly furious he was.

He had woken up, he’s not sure why. All he knew was, he turned over in bed, snuggling across the covers, more than ready to embrace and nuzzle close to his stunningly naked, and thoroughly beautiful wife. And when his searching hand that intended to steel firmly about her naked waist, found warm bed sheets where her body had once been.

He had never known such a horrible awakening as that.

He was up like a shot. She wasn’t in the washroom, there was no indicating that she was. And then he heard her shout. _‘STOP’_ that was undoubtedly his wife's voice, echoing up from down below them in the old manor. His heart was in his mouth, and he had never dressed so fast in all his bloody life. He yanked on boots, possibly on the wrong feet, and snapped breeches up over his legs, and nearly gave himself whiplash in the way he furiously tore his shirt down over his torso and across his shoulders. He grabbed his waistcoat, and he was halfway down the ruddy stairs by the time he pulled that on. Rage replaced his bloodstream, pumping hot and thick through his veins. And bile was rising in his throat. Whatever made his wife shout out _‘stop’_ in the middle of the night in the dark house, with such anger to her voice, made him snarl and angered in a way he had never known. He felt dangerous. He felt unsafe. He felt like the next person he saw, he would kill. And he would start with his wife. The damn silly woman deciding to go _strolling_ about the house _alone,_ _unaccompanied_ at night-

He had come to the hallway by the door. Branching off down the left. And there was a broken window. And there was blood. Shining wet and stark in the moonlight. If he was terrified before, he was horrified right out of his very _skin_ at that.

“ _Elizabeth_.”

Was the whimper torn from his lips, especially when he looked out of the broken window, his boots crunched on the shattered shards of glass as they crunched under his feet as he leaned closer to the window. Looking out. _He could see her_.Dress billowing out behind her, red hair flying back as the moon illuminated the red coils.

She was _Running. Sprinting **away**_ from the house.

He had never experienced the expression, seeing red before. But now, he could not be so fortunate as the claim that. He bounded out of the house, grabbing and lighting a lantern on the hall able as he went, tearing angrily after his wife. _Lord help her, he was locking her up and throwing away the key after tonight, if just so he didn’t have to be put through a feeling like this, **ever** again._

He had never ran so hard, nor powerfully in all his life. Not even in the war. He ignored how his chest burned, and his legs screamed in agony at being overused and exercised in such a way. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care that his feet jarred, painfully hard, with each stride. His thighs ached already, but he powered one leg in front of the other, faster and faster, over and over until he saw he was gaining on her. She twisted right, across the maze near the orchard. And then, thankfully, she tripped, slipping on the grass. And before he could tell himself not to scare, or alarm her. He stalked right over and snatched her pale arm into his grip, he didn’t care if he was hurting her – which was not like him one jot he would never consider hurting his wife – but as he now shook with rage, he found he literally couldn’t summon the willpower to even think of controlling his anger. No, anger was too tame. His _fury. Blind, white, hot, fury._

She yelped, twisting to face him. uneased by the glare and his harsh, thunderous and how his voice could have melted steel. Her hair whipped into her face at the force of her snapping her head back to him. He was also not able to help how he snarled, swearing at her. So angry that he had long since waved goodbye to sense, and when he had seen the blood. Good god, was this rage he felt even possible? He felt like his pounding, terrified and furiously wracking heart would _burst_ from such antagonism any second.

“There was _a man_. Thomas. I heard him. He broke the window, he was trying to get in the house….”

She whimpered, her eyes were too big and terrified for her to have been lying.

He shook his head.

“I tried to stop him, and _he ran_ , he cut his hand on the window. I tried to prevent him, and he _ran_.” She gabbled.

“Then why the _assing hell_ did you not _wake **me?**_ You thought it best to run and confront a violent dangerous man, _alone_ , in the gardens as this _ungodly hour_.”

“I was _perfectly_ safe. _He was_ fleeing in the opposite direction.” She steeled out.

“Shush.” Thomas ground out. His jaw firmly cemented in stiff anger.

“Elizabeth. He could _have hurt you_. He could _have forced himself_ on you, and _hurt_ you, There are men in this world who _hurt_ and _abuse_ women. He could have caused you serious bodily harm, and had I not-” He assured her in a stiff angry voice. He cut his own words off. His thundering eyes met hers.

“We’ve been burned by that before.” He told her in a quietened hush.

She swallowed.

The bitter realisation swelling up, knowing how thoughtless her actions had been _. She should have woken him. Why on earth didn’t she?_ Perhaps she had been blinded by her

Both their attentions snapped to the orchard, where they peered across, now seeing the dark figure haul the wooden door that led to the apple orchard open, tearing through it, running away. And Thomas saw him too. She wasn’t lying. Not that he thought she was. But he saw the man. Plain as day. He saw the mist slapping at his ankles, rolling over him, as he skirted through it, disappearing into the trees. And Thomas too, he felt he had seen that stride before. He almost felt there was something familiar about the man.

“Let’s go back to bed.” Thomas spoke lowly.

Elizabeth peered up at him.

“I’ll call the local Inspector in the morning. Tell him what we saw.”

He spoke, his eyes fixed in the distance where the figure had disappeared too. He was almost glaring at the retreating man’s back, his face stiff, jaw clenched, and mouth a straight stony line. And at this point, they both knew they’d sleep a little less easy tonight. Because he had almost gotten in once. What would stop him from coming back?

“Let’s go inside.”

Thomas spoke gravely. Putting a hand to her waist and guiding her back to Chatsworth Hall.

“I don’t like this.” He spoke in a low dangerous voice, they could hear the wind assault the trees, and a fox shrieking in the distance.

“I don’t like it _one bit_. I feel like we’re being cornered. And in our own home. Like something is _circling_ us. Preying on our every move, tapping on the window like a branch.”

"I felt it too." She added.

Elizabeth, who had been looking at her husband, looked back across the orchard. She really hoped that the mystery figure, for the time being, that they would be _left alone._

She really did. With all her heart.

 

~


	54. Aftermath's, Gift's and Pretty Wives...

 

 

 

~ The very next morning ~

 

Thomas arose, very bright and too early, not able to let himself fall back asleep so easily after the night’s disturbances. He had lain awake, eyes roving to the curtains. Picking up on any slight noise, his ears pricking at every flutter of the wind, or every fox that shrieked in the near distance. He stayed awake until it got light. And dawn broke out the slanted bursts of it’s ripe colours across the sky. And a bright, sunny morning followed the dark, cold and devious night that proceeded it. He had happily bided time away, soothing his wife back to sleep, though he himself did not catch a wink of it. He stroked the red tresses back from her forehead, watching her gently drift away to sleep. Her breathing evening out as she cuddled up into his chest. But sleep did not find him. He was awake for the entirety of the night now. Wondering, if the scoundrel that had attempted entry would come back, and finish whatever black deeds he wanted to commit.

He marched to the breakfast room, and downed but one singular sip of coffee, and then he was pulling on his coat, itching to go and have a thorough inspection of the damage last night’s intruder had left on his home. Subsequently, as the sun shone down, and a gentle breeze ruffled along his skin. Thomas was carefully crouching, knelt on a plank of wood, so as not to tear his knees to shreds from the daggering shards of glass scattered over the gravel, _he_ himself _insisted_ on assessing how much damage had been done to his house. Wilkin’s did offer to call a repair man out, but the Duke dismissed it. Luckily, he was not too cack handed with a hammer, and he had always had a keen joy, as a child, for taking things apart, seeing their working order, and assembling it back to rights once again. So it was no trouble for him fix the shattered window. First by clearing all the jagged stubs of glass from the pane. Smashing them down with a hammer, to gain an even edge so it could be easily replaced.

“Do have care over your hands, My lord. I bare a message from Mrs Elmstone, she states that she will not have a injured man, with glass stuck in his hand, bleeding all over her kitchens as he attempts to right the world all by himself…”

Thomas chuckled, seeing that the ever attentive Butler had placed down a small wooden stool beside his master, rested crookedly on the gravel, on which now balanced a silver tray of tea, and a rack of toast.

“I am heartened by her kind courtesies. She treats me with teasing rejection. Yet _lord forfend_ I do so on an empty stomach. The toast I take it is from her?”

He asked Wilkin’s. Who gave him a warm smile as an affirmative. His green eyes glittered with mirth.

Thomas smiled, shaking his head.

“Has there been a thorough sweep through? Have any other windows about the house been broken?” Thomas asked.

“None sir. Just this one.” He reported.

“Did any of the staff see anything?” He asked.

“Two housemaids, the gardener, and the stable hands, sir, they all saw a man, dressed head to toe in black, run past the orchard and out along towards the gardens to the west of the house. Though it was pitch black, they, all of them, swear by it.”

“Excellent…”

Thomas groaned as he heaved himself up. Careful not to cut his hands to ribbons on all the sharp glass littered about, shifting and crunching under his feet.

“I’ve sent word to the Police Inspector. He has confirmed that he’ll call by tomorrow. I would like all those staff who saw, to produce a statement, if they are able. And if you’d be so good, and kindly fetch me a sackcloth, one sturdy enough for me to dispose of the glass, ask Milton and Angus in the stables, and inform them I shall also be needing a clean broom. I’d like to get this glass up before anyone does themselves damage. Then I shall find something with which to board the window until the Glass Replacement gentleman, Hobbes, is able to get here.”

Thomas asked, scratching the back of his neck, sighing as he finished his sentence.

“Very good sir, right away. Again sir, should you like one of the staff to attend to it? it is a menial task? After all..” Wilkin’s pointed out.

Thomas smiled. Wilkin’s was _always so keen_ as to preserve the normalcy of rank and class. Yet, the Duke was perpetually _blind_ to it. Something of which he knew, _greatly irked_ , his proper staff hand.

“You know me, Wilkin’s.” Thomas spoke in a way that was almost reproving, but managed to remain lighthearted.

“If there is a problem, with my manor, my staff, tenant’s, or my family, I shall attempt to conquer it by my own hands, if nothing else. As I always have done.”

He had his back to him, as he chipped away the last splinters of stubbly glass. But even so, he could still tell that his Butler was smiling.

Wilkin’s bowed, moving to step too. Before he stopped, remembering something as he dug it out of his pockets.

“I forget, Sir. Forgive me. One of the stable boys, Ashby, I believe. It was. Gave chase to the man, but he got away. And he was said to have dropped this.”

Thomas turned to see Wilkin’s held in his outstretched hand, a crumpled, and stained ball of paper.

He took it from his Butler’s hand. Peeling the tight ball of paper open…

To see a worn and battered, faded copy, of his wedding article reported in the times. Complete with a picture of the newly married Duke and Duchess. Smiling up at him. He swallowed, whomever this, figure was, and by now, he had a pretty ghastly clue, clearly, they were of a long since passed acquaintance to the newly wedded Kenworthy’s.

Thomas swallowed, nervously, no more settled by discovering this.

Wilkin’s met his eyes nervously.

“I shall inform all of the staff to be on their very best guard, Sir.” He promised.

“No mention of this to my wife, Wilkin’s. It would only panic her, and she has enough… ordeals as it is. It is Sir Robert Compton’s Ball tonight. Inform the rest of the staff they have the night off to themselves. We go about this in a normal, and calm manner, until moved otherwise.” Thomas ordered.

“ _Understood_ Sir.”

Wilkin’s nodded. His tone, to Thomas, rather sounded like he would instruct every single member of staff to take up arms, and report to their battle stations. Because if someone was out to harm any one member of the family, then the Duke would find he had many loyal friends backing his heels to their very death.

“Should I instruct the maid to take your wife some tea up? Sir?”

Thomas smiled.

“No. best let her sleep. She had a tiring night with all the drama, let her sleep in.”

Thomas smiled gently, shoving the paper far down in his pocket.

“Things _are… going_ to be _, alright? Aren’t they_ , Sir?”

Wilkin’s asked gently before he moved off.

Thomas, heartened by his staff’s concern. Smiled meekly at his words.

“Things are grand. Wilkin’s. we just, have to be vigilant through these uncertain times.” He pressed.

Wilkin’s nodded.

“You are, a great man Sir. And an even greater Duke. Much like your father, Sir. He too led the house with the same dignity, and greatness that you do. You have exceeded, and surpassed the grand honourable measures with which he ruled the estate. I speak for all of us, Sir, when I say. We are proud to represent and serve this house, and the family within. It has formerly been, and _always_ is, Sir, an _honour_.”

Thomas turned to see Wilkin’s smile soothingly at him. His green eyes glittering, before he bowed, and made his way back into the house. Thomas smiled to himself as he left. Things, suddenly, didn’t seem as dark as once they had, after all.

 

~

 

~ Elizabeth's blue gown ~

~ Màdamé René Landry ~

~ Chatsworth Hall Staircase ~

~ Thomas's Cravat and Waistcoat ~

~ Iris Thatcher Kenworthy ~

 

~ Elizabeth's Purchases ~

 

Elizabeth does not know what time she fell to her slumber after the night's events, but all she knew was that she awoke, not feeling refreshed, but rather, with the previous day weighing down heavily on her mind, like lead. Thomas’s side of the bed was empty, but she knew he would be up, striding about his home, putting his world to rights. She smiled at the thought. Ever the in charge Duke. She supposed. She liked that he was assertive and took utter responsibility for the running of his home. He was a true gentleman.

She stretched, and heaved her body out of bed. Blinking her bleary eyes a few times so that her eyesight wasn’t fuzzy. She walked to the washroom, and was glad for the heat of the warm water as she washed her face. After running and dropping herself into a delightfully hot lavender bath, she groaned, easing herself below the waterline, the heat soothing her somewhat tired body in relaxation. After she was sufficiently cleaned, all over with her honey and lavender soap. She left her hair twisted atop her head, keeping it dry. She’d wash it later, before the ball. She clambered out, dried, and slipped herself into her simple pale blue, short sleeved gown, of which bore little detailing. She rolled on her blue stockings and her slip on blue slippers. Once she brushed through her thick curly hair, and applied sufficient cosmetics to her face. And slipped her sapphire earbobs in her lobes, she grabbed a blue shawl, and begun downstairs, holding it in her right hand, it was pleasant out, she only brought it just in case. Off to see if he rhusband required any help. Which of course, she was sure, he would instantly rebuff her enquiries.

She was just heading down the grand staircase, humming idly to herself as she became lost in her thoughts. She was halfway down the large set of stairs, when there came a ring on the pull bell from the front door. Which Wilkin’s crossed to answer. His foot falls echoing across the floor as he walked across the black and white tiles. Elizabeth continued walking down, to see as he opened the door. That a familiar certain French Dressmaker stood the other side of it. Elizabeth smiled fondly at the sight of the woman. Who purred a gleeful ‘bonjour’ to the Butler as she swept passed him.

Elizabeth’s mouth hung open aghast however, as René was herself flanked by several gentleman. All of whom’s arms were laden down with boxes. For hat’s dresses, cosmetics, accesorries. There were more boxes and gown sleeves than there were people. And Elizabeth counted atleast eight gentlemen.

“Bonjour! Cheri!” René grinned up towards the woman on the stairs.

“ _Dîtes-moi_ , Madame, where would you like your order?” She asked with a cheshire cats grin.

“ _Oh_.” Elizabeth whimpered, her smile pulled wide.

“Anywhere is fine!” She insisted.

“Anywhere, Gentleman… Careful with the smaller boxes, that is the _parfum_. ” She called out to them with a sly smile.

Elizabeth was certain eyes were nearly bugging out of her skull. Once the men, her assistants she was sure, had lain down the boxes. They came back in armed with more. Adding them to the already piled high boxes in the foyer. She came down the rest of the stairs in an absolute daze. There was enough here to clothe a kingdom. And Elizabeth was certainly no Empress. Though she had an uncanny feeling that the french woman was spoiling her. When she said she’d ‘throw a couple of things in’ Elizabeth wondered if she didn’t half get carried away.

Once she got across the tiled floor, René opened her arms, and embraced her in a long and squeezing hug, after placing two of her typical french kisses near her cheeks. She too, today, looked as polished and as elegant as she had done when they had first met. She was drssed today, in a high collared, intricate red velvet dress, with slightly puffed shoulders, and a red ecorated bowler hat, with a long rusty feather leading back off it. Her coat, was navy silk, and the sleeves easily reached the floor, they were draped, and the front of the gown cut away into a double breasted button front. Not obscuring the front of her skirts as she walked. She truly was, beautiful. Her eyes sparkled, her smile was wide, and she looked pleased to have made Elizabeth so moved by simply fulfilling her order.

René chuckled, taking the Duchesses hand in her navy leather gloves, holding it tight, as Elizabeth scanned the hefty weight of the purchases stacked around them, as the last few boxes came bleeding in.

“So. _Mon Cheri_. What do you think?” René asked with a wicked smile.

“I think you need to bill me a whole load more…”

Elizabeth whispered in awe, her fingers brushing the tp of a large ciruclar hatbox. The third of three, stacked high down to the floor.

“ _Fruitless._ Màdamé. You know I shall not.” She grinned like those cunning foxes in old fables.

René looked back across to the door. Just as one of her assistants walked directly over, carrying a dress sleeve, which the dressmaker grinned wide at.

“ _AH, enfin._ I have, how you say, saved the _best_ til last. Though I consider all of my gowns a work of art, _Cheri,_ I hope you agree that this one…”

All the while she spoke as she carefully removed the outer shell of the sleeve. Elizabeth caught a peek of the champagne, ivory and layers of taupe silk beneath it. The colour she had chosen for her dress for Sir Robert Compton’s ball.

Her jaw dropped and she exhaled a slow rush of breath as she caught sight of the gown in front of her.

“..Is the most _beautiful gown_ , of all.”

René grinned, holding it out in front of her body for the Duchess to examine.

~ Elizabeth's shoes, gloves, gown, earrings and all ~

 

Elizabeth was almost scared to touch it. And when René had promised her that she would be the bell of the ball. She had told no tall tales. It was not just a gown. It belonged in a museum, strung up high for the whole world to see. The champagne silk she had chosen, was the underlay, building up the main body of the dress. Over which lay a thin layer of golden chiffon, and lace, which built up in numerous layers, to form the bodice, with hand painted silk flowers pressed all along the edge of it. And around the slim waist, there saw a pre stitched ribbon that was a teal blue colour. The bow secured with diamontes around the knot. And also dotted all along the folds of silk just below the bust of the silk near the bosom. And from the petite waist the skirts flowed out to create a beautiful vision of the dress.

“René. I’m. _I’m…. speechless_. It’s…” Elizabeth trailed off.

René grinned.

“I take that proudly as my praise for the job, _Mon Cheri.”_ Màdamé Làndry smiled.

“It’s perfect. Utterly perfect…”

Elizabeth breathed looking absolutely in love with it. Skimming her hand down the back of the gown, feeling the material, silk, chiffon and lace, glide under her hand.

“ _Oh_ , and I had Hénri help with Thomas’s waistcoat, cravat and shirt. When he stands next to you tonight, Cheri, his clothing will bring out the blue of the flowers sewn onto your dress…”

She explained, moving to show her another sleeve that was close to the huge pile of the things next to them. And underneath was a white cotton shirt, with a divine looking patterned blue waistcoat, and a deeper blue cravat linked about the neck of the hanger. Elizabeth grinned, loving how they had even been so good as to provide a tie pin for his cravat. She smiled in knowing how gorgeously divine it would make her husband look when he wore it, later tonight. She couldn’t wait, both to see him in his new garment, and to slip on her beautifully crafted dress.

“You are, without a doubt, _a genius_. René. _Un génie."_ Elizabeth grinned

“ _Merci,_ Màdamé Kenworthy. It was my _pleasure._ ” She smiled widely.

“…And before I forget, the other, more _,_ _séduisant,_ orders of yours. Are all in these boxes here. They are tailoured to your _exact_ measurements and should fit like _a glove_. They’re all silk, the nightdresses, various assorted colours to suit your skin, and hair colour. But you may write to me if you are at all displeased with any little thing. I shall exchange them in the blink of an eye should you wish me to."

“Thankyou. That is very kind. I’m _positive_ I shall not be dissatisfied in any way.”

Elizabeth smiled. Looking over across the horde of her treasures. That was when she realised that she hadn’t even asked the dressmaker to make sure the silks and fabrics matched her skin tone, the frenchwoman had done it anyway. _That_ , she remarked, _was above and beyond service._

“…And if you’ll permit me, Màdamé, _these boxes_..”

She smiled, picking up her skirts and moving over to the smaller ones that were placed high on the others, Elizabeth watched as René flipped a lid of off one of the boxes, revealing a small, elongated bottle of french parfum. It was white, swirled all over with gold pattern. René plucked the bottle from the tissue papered box, and lifting it into the air.

 

~ The _infamous_ French parfum ~

 

“This, is my _famous_ french parfum. The very scent that is enchanting all of paris. Two dabs of this, on your neck, and your wrists. And everyone will be taken by storm when you wear it tonight.” René winked.

She uncorked the glass stopper from the bottle, and handed it to Elizabeth. Who inhaled it with a blissful sigh. It did smell _heavenly_. Roses, Vanilla, Jasmine, and patchouli. Drifting across her senses, enticing her. She tipped the bottle onto two fingers, and swiped it across her wrist, and the rest of it on her neck.

“It’s gorgeous, René. I can’t Thankyou enough.”

She smiled, inhaling the floral scent now soaking into her skin. It was a scent that you couldn’t help noticing.

“My personal favourite. Soon, I shall have _everyone_ in Derbyshire wearing it.” Rene winked. Placing the stopper back in the bottle and tucking it back into its box. Nestled in amongst the white tissue paper of it’s box.

“I don’t doubt _that, or you_ , for a second.” Elizabeth offered.

“The praise for the gown shall be my praise. And as for the payment…”

She smiled, reaching into her small reticule, she then withdrew a small slip of flded paper. Handing it discreetly to Elizabeth. Who took it from the woman. When she read the total figure, she knew it was three times less than the amount she truly owed the woman.

“René. That’s almost half of what I owe you-“

René’s hard stare cut off her words. Chiding her.

“May I mail you the funds?”

Elizabeth smiled. Knowing that she was trying to fight a battle that was already lost.

“…My adress is enclosed.”

René winked. She would not have it any other way. Going along with it all along.

“I think you should have everything you need for tonight’s ball. I will see you again, _Cheri_. If my memory serves me correct, I think your husband booked me a schedule with you for your autumn dresses in July.” She grinned.

“I’m certain I shall see you before then. I’m told your shop is the toast of Ladieswear in all of Castleton.” Elizabeth grinned. “And I have yet to visit the town myself, But have been assured that your shop stands proud among it.”

René’s eyes glowed a touch warm to hear such praise.

“ _Merci Beacoup, Cheri_.” She smiled. “I shall take my leave of you now, I am most pleased you like the dress. And I sincerely hope that the dresses for the Kenworthy ladies come up to scratch aswell.” She beamed.

“I’m certain of it.” Elizabeth smiled.

“Good day, Elizabeth. It was _un plaisir_. As always.... Give dear Thomas, mine and Hénri’s love…”

“I shall be sure to.” The Duchess smiled.

Again, René leaned in and pressed kisses near Elizabeth’s cheeks before she slipped away, to escort all her numerous assistants back to Castleton.

“ _Oh_ , and Elizabeth..”

She spoke before she sidled away, turning back as she spoke.

“Yes?”

The Duchess asked, looking across from where the Frenchwoman braced her hand on the archway before she swept away through the open front door. Her blue eyes glittering with curiousity.

“I meant what I said about that parfum. Men will _swarm_ to you because of it.”

She winked, Elizabeth flushed, watching the woma wink before she swayed away, leaving behind the air which was strung with her scent. And Elizabeth heard her call a sultry _‘Au Revoir Mon Cheri’_ to the room behind her as she left.

The Duchess of Chatsworth was left standing in amongst a sea of ivory white hatboxes, and parcels, all with ‘Màdamé Làndry’ stamped on every one. She flipped the lid of one of the ones closest to her, to see that laying inside it, was a fabulous large hat. It was dark red silk, adorned with black feathers and lace. She smiled, ghosting her fingers across the soft feather. Smiling down Into the box. She had a peek, and opened several more packages, to find they were all laden with things such as gloves, shoes, hat’s, corsets, chemises, diamond hair clips, aswell as beauty products. Creams, balms, rouge, parfum. René had even thrown in various coloured stockings and a cape or two while she was at it.

She didn’t realise she had company until there came a “Oh, my goodness..” From behind her.

She turned to see Iris flabberghasted by the amount of boxes surrounding her sister-in-law. She almost recoiled back into the doorway she had come from. She crossed to Elizabeth, staggered by the sheer volume of the numerous purchases laid out around the lobby.

“I see René was here..” Iris laughed as she slid forwards. Recognising the name swirled artfully on every box.

“Yes, I ordered a new ball for Sir Robert Compton’s ball tonight, and René gave me… half of her shop free of charge aswell.” Elizabeth smiled, peering round at the many boxes surrounding them.

“René is always like that. The first time I comissioned a dress she gave me a whole case of beauty things, thrown in completely free of charge. She just adores helping women feel beautiful. It’s a lovely gesture really. She is a delightful woman.” Iris smiled.

“Well. I’m willing to split my treasures threeways, to you and Edith. She gave me about five bottles of french parfum. And enough make up to put upon the whole of London’s population. I could start now on it, and still not be finished in ten years time.” Libby smiled.

“Oh, we couldn’t.” Iris rebuffed.

“Nonsense. Of course you can. Don’t make me use the _Duchess,_ excuse again.”

Elizabeth smiled cheekily, laying down another fantastic pair of blue lace up boots back into the box.

“I fear you and my brother are using that excuse far too liberally as of late…” Iris sighed with a smile.

Libby beamed. That was before a thought pinged into her head. She announced a small cry of _‘oh’_ before she dived into the pile of dress sleeves. Smiling when she saw that René had marked two dress sleeves. One with an _‘E’_ and the other’s with a _‘J’_ and an _‘I’_. She grinned, taking the both of them in hand, and walking over and handing them both to a rather bemused looking Iris. Whose grey eyes clouded over with uncertainty as her sister in law approached with a dress sleeve in each hand.

“What is this?” Iris asked, astounded.

“Consider it a gift. For you, Edith, and Judith.” She smiled.

Iris’s mouth hung open.

“A gift from me. For making me feel so welcome here. I cannot thank you enough. You have a _lovely_ family, Iris. I am only humbled and heartened that you let me into it so lovingly.”

Iris was speechless.

“But. You married into the family, Libby. _You-_ You didn’t need to.”

“I did. Iris. You made me feel so welcome, I am repaying my thanks.”

“It is not as if we had to try _hard_ to love and welcome you.”

Iris pointed out drily with a loving smile.

Elizabeth gave her a sharp look.

“ _Duchess_. Remember.” She warned.

Iris laughed.

“Go on, take a peek. I haven’t seen them yet myself.” Elizabeth smiled. Urging her sister-in-law onwards.

Iris smiled, unveiling the dress from beneeath the sleeve. Elizabeth winced as she did so. She hoped she liked it. She remembered asking René to fashion the dress out of a simple, soft pink silk. Iris blinked as she lowered the sleeve down.

 

~ Iris's Gown ~

 She had never had a gown which looked as beautiful or intricate as this one. Even by her own admission, most of the dresses she owned were of simple design, and unexciting, yet rich colours. But this gown was different. It had been tailored with love. Bearing in mind her measurements. It was a gentle rose pink, a pastel pink. Trimmed with fine with belgian lace – René only boasted of using the best – it was a sleeveless gown. It was designed to be one of her best gowns. For certain. She adored it, it was elegant, still quite simple. Corseted and fitted, low at the bust, but just modest enough to be perfectly respectable. With long flowing skirts. And a large flower to the left shoulder strap. It was simply graceful, and elegant. For all elegance, she knew, begins with simplicity. She’d wear this to Sir Robert Compton’s ball tonight. Happily so. A dress as beautiful as this one, deserved to be flaunted.

Elizabeth got her answer as iris folded the woman, one arm still holding the dress, into a hug.

“Thankyou.” She mumbled, heartened by the gesture. “I adore it, Elizabeth. It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever been given.” Iris exclaimed.

When the two women pulled away, she laid the gown in front of her body, and smiled down at herself, almost as if she could envisage herself wearing it already. Elizabeth then pushed three boxes into the woman’s hands. 

Iris gave her a look. But she still managed to look kind and humble about it… _even_ when she was trying to be stern.

Elizabeth held her hands up.

“That wasn’t me. _Honest._ René’s fault. She sent those to go with the dress. Clearly she was intent on spoiling _us all…_ ”

Elizabeth offered. Showing her all the boxes that had been labelled with _‘I’_ proving it wasn’t her doing.

Iris smiled, placing the dress back under the cover and peering under the box lids. There was a ew pair of white laced, pink ribboned shoes in one, snowy white silk gloves in another, and a few pairs of white stockings to boot aswell.

“That woman must’ve been a clever villian in another life.” Iris remarked in good humour.

Elizabeth laughed. “ A very _generous_ one.” She smiled.

“These are all for Edith. And then these ones are for, Judith. And Ophelias cloak is among here somewhere.” Elizabeth supposed.

“That reminds me. Have you seen her at all today?” She asked.

“She was in her private salon in the north wing with Fidget, last I heard.” Iris smiled helpfully. “Singing along to an elderly man called Kieth.”

Elizabeth blinked.

Iris shook her head.

“I don’t want to know. _Do I?_ ” She asked Iris with a smile

“That would be terribly wise of you.” Iris finished quickly and flatly.

“I’ll track her down later.” Elizabeth smiled. Waving it off. “Is she coming to the ball tonight?” Elizabeth wondered. Because if _anyone_ would know, it was _bound_ to be Iris.

“I believe she expressed her wish to stay home, and count her collection of _antique spoons_.” Iris smiled, shrugging one shoulder as if it was a perfectly normal pastime.

But, Elizabeth had grown used to the old biddies ways no. So much so, that spoon counting seemed a perfectly rational way for her great aunt in law to stay in and spend an evening. Which makes her realise how readily acustomed to Ophelias insanity she had become. And if that isn’t a thought to reflect upon, then _god only knows_ what is. Had she muttered that statement to herself a month ago, when she still lived in London, and wasn’t engaged to the most handsome, wonderful man in all of the universe, then she’d think this creature uttering such words to her was barking mad. Worhty to be locked away in an asylum, and to loose the key.

“…She was never one for balls. And I fear that has worsened with _her age_. She states she can no longer afford, as death grows rapidly closer by the day, that her time should not be frittered away wasted on being gathered into an overcrowded, stuffy ballroom, full of preening idiots of men, and airheaded chits, all of whom she says, are so stupid, and transparent, that if they were anymore so, stupid and ineffectual, they’d have to be watered twice a week.” Iris offered

Elizabeth smiled to that.

“I’m afraid to agree, but she has a point. Some od the society in London, who were thrown into the social whirl to converse with, well. Let me just say, that if they had another brain, it would be _lonely._ ”

She smiled. Trying to order some of the boxes around them. Seeing which ones belonged to who.

Iris tittered at that.

“ _Oh dear_. Not an ideal bunch of characters then?” She asked.

“ _Well_. The _only_ pleasing people I managed to come across was my good friend Violet, and I had known her since we were young, Though I haven’t often engaged him in conversation, Sir Benedict Carlton has a solid useful head atop his shoulders, though as a single lady I was never permitted to engage him, he was considered a dangerous rake, and the other was his great Aunt, Lady Mannering. A stern old dragon who had more sense in her whole head, than _even I do_ in my little finger.” Elizabeth smiled.

“Oh, I do miss Sir Carlton. We do adore it when he visits here. Judith was enamoured with him. He is greta company.”

“And then my brother I hope. Though I know he is hopeless at some things…” Iris smiled nicely.

Elizabeth laughed.

“He is the perfect exception. I gave him a whole other category for that. That, and the splendid fact that _he did_ offer me his hand in marriage after all.” Elizabeth supposed.

“I suppose we can forgive him any boring conversation for that.” Iris joked nicely.

“Your brother, Iris, is _never_ boring.”

“You’re his wife. It is _your_ duty to say that. I, am his twin sister. It is _my duty_ to say the _complete opposite._ Since he was the brother who put toads in my bed when we were young, and teased me about my pigtail plaits when we were little.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“I shall be sure to get him back as penance for his crimes toward you...” Elizabeth winked.

“I am grateful for your subterfge.” Iris japed.

“ _Stop_ slandering my good gracious name, would you, Irie.”

Came a smooth as silk, deep throaty voice, echoing across the hall to the both of them.

The ladies turned behind them, to see the Duke striding towards them, grinning wickedly. Jacket off, white cotton sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off his strong shapely forearms. Today he wore a fetching black waistcoat, and a rusty red paisley patterned cravat. His silver watch fob linked about his front. His usual black leather boots were on his feet, and his customary black breeches. He was amogn family, so he could relax his dress. And clearly he had grown bored of business papers, off in search of seeking out some company. He was bound to wander across some eventually, after all. There were 247 rooms, it only took a _little_ bit of searching and legwork...

“And _you_ …”

Thomas growled, approaching his wife like a panther stalking it’s prey. One hand behind his back, as he crooked one finger, pointing it towards her. When he crossed the floor, and got to her. He slunk a hand to the back of her waist, and reeled her close. Pressing a quick smack of a kiss to her forehead.

“Stop paying attention to my pest of a little sister.” He winked to Iris. Who shot him a wry yet sharp look.

“I am younger than you, by _three and a half_ minutes…Thomas Kenworthy. Such meagre timing is not a _just_ basis for you to lord yourself over me, and order me about.” Iris smiled warmly. Even when telling someone off, she was still lovely.

“Even if you _are_ a Duke…” Iris smiled.

“I prefer _your gracious, handsome and divine, omnipotent, Lordship_ , actually.” Thomas smiled, japing with his sister.

“You mys be delirious. And no not forget, while I live and breathe, _unless_ my memory is Shoddy, I am still, _A Lady.”_ Iris pointed out.

“ _Pffft_.” Thomas waved off with his hand.

“I’ll take _that_ as my victory.” She steeled.

“ _Oh_. I think you should.” Elizabeth smiled.

“After all, he _is a Duke, you know.”_

Libby grinned. Turning his power on it’s head.

“Anyway. I much as I enjoy besting you, dearest brother. I am off. I must go help my Edith with her tutorials.” Iris smiled.

“Thankyou again for the gowns, Elizabeth. I cannot relay my thanks fervently enough.”

The Duchess smiled.

“Do let me know if Ed likes her gown. Judith too.” She smiles.

Iris smiled gladly nodding an ‘of course’, before she turned on her heel, and began away up the stairs. Carrying the dresses as she went. Elizabeth would ask Elsie to help her disperse the boxes later.

Thomas hugged her flat to his chest after Iris was out of sight. Matter of fact, she had _barely_ gotten away out of earhsot on the stairs, and she had been pressed flush to her husband, and was being mercilessly kissed, like never before.

He groaned as he pulled away.

Elizabeth sighed, smiling though, to his credit.

“Will you ever _not_ be indecent when we are alone?” She asked, laughing.

He grinned, whilst biting his lip, waggling his dark brows at her.

“Don’t waggle those things at me, your _gracious, handsome and divine_ , _omnipotent_ , Lordship..”

Elizabeth smiled, hearing him chuckle as he nuzzled his head down into her neck, she was able to feel his laugh, thundering through his chest, and he pressed kisses upon her pale neck.

“ _Oh_ , say that again, _but slower, and more seductively_. While I _undress you and ravish_ you, right _here_ where we stand…”

He flirted indelicately into her ear. And the way hi lips pressed to her, made sure she could feel his grin.

“I have no time, for _such activities_ , Thomas. I have chores to attend to.”

“Cancel them.” He grinned foxily. He then leaned in to whisper into her ear.

_“I want to get you naked..”_

He purred. Voice so deep, it could have met the earths core were it any deeper.

“I have _dresses_ to order.”

“ _Pity_. What _I_ want to do, however, involves _very little_ dresses. Matter of fact, it involves _no dresses_ at all…”

He smirked, his hands deviously sliding down the back of her waist and cupping her bottom, levering her body up onto him. Pressing their bodies into one, so she could better feel the evidence of his desire, straining into her under his breeches.

“Thomas.”

She growled lowly with a smile.

“In case it has escaped your mind, Mi’lord. We have to attend your very good friend, Sir Robert Compton’s ball, this eve.”

Thomas smiled down at her. Before he brushed a hand down the side of her neck, stroking her hair. Before he peered around them as he gave his answer.

“Is that why my home is now drowning in boxes from ‘Màdamé Làndry’s Dress Emporium’?” He asked with a wry brow raised.

“Indeed it is. Me and Iris fancy that René was a scandalous calculating outlaw in a previous life, for she only billed for _a third_ of all the sea of purchases before us.” She smiled.

“She is a crook of a woman. She and Hénri, _never_ let me pay in full either.”

“I think her payment is in the assurance of helping people feel beautiful. And I think that is the finest thing, If ever I’ve known one.” Elizabeth smiled.

“It is.”

Thomas remarked back to her. Squeezing her close, both hands warmly hugging about her waist.

“Would you be a dear and help me sort them?” Elizabeth asked.

Thomas’s shoulders slumped.

“I was hoping for, a few, ardent moments _alone_ with you.”

He groaned, his head leaning down to place a singular kiss to her bare shoulder.

His wife blinked across to him. Her pretty face speaking louder than her words ever could.

Thomas growled.

“Put me to use, My Lady..” He sighed

Elizabeth smiled, heaping boxes into his arms. After such, she would have to go and bathe and ready herself for tonight. She had to wash and dry her hair before the ball. A little nervous as to all the new faces she’’d meet there. And whether she could rise to her title, and make a grand first impression upon Thomas’s friends, and all the influential folk of Derbyshire. But for now. She was atleast thankful for his help in her task...

He was _a Duke_ after all. A Duke so in love with his wife, that he would help her sort and order dresses and gloves in an afternoon. His own arousal be _damned._

here was a devoted husband, and _make no_ mistake about it.

It made her laugh, however, when her and Thomas oassed one another, her leaning across him later, to reach something just beside him. He leaned close into her, and she suddenly felt his hands vice ardently against her hips, she was able to feel his hot, strong hands grip her, even through the fabric of her dress. And it was then she felt him groan against her neck, his breath sweeping down her partially bare shoulder. Making her shudder, when she realised his groin was getting – _active_ – as it pressed into her once more. And she smiled as she heard him inhale, low and deep at the crook of her neck, winding her closer, all the while cupping her body as he moaned;

“My god, you smell absolutely, _delicious_.”

He growled. Getting harder, just merely at the inviting delectable scent of her

She giggled, linking an arm about his neck.

 

René had been _so right_ after all.

_~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	55. The Unfortunate Tradegies of The Over-eager and Somewhat Premature, Miss Anabelle Hastings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a little trouble from the old writer's block, ( if you have been following all 54 chapters, this chapter is the night they are all attending a ball. Correct. well done) but my brain is just being a little bit of a dickhead and not allowing me to get a good flow on the transition from Chatsworth Manor, to Clifton Park Ballroom. which is bloody annoying...
> 
> Just a note to say, to kindly bare with me, I'm on Pinterest trying madly to stoke my Victorian Inspiration urgently, to churn out a new and lovely chapter for you all. 
> 
> Mainly one where Thomas cannot help but adore and love his wife in her flawlessly beautiful gown, and take pleasure in flaunting her wonderfulness to Derbyshire folk. And of course, Elizabeth will both delight and stun the elite of Derbyshire with her fire and wit (That part's coming along ok!) But then my brain ticked over with a somewhat angsty and sad snippet, introducing a new character to us all. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this... This is my brain trying not to let things get too bland. It will be a Happily Ever After, I promise you that, but there will be a few bumps in the road on the way to that.... please enjoy, and Thankyou for your patience and love for this story....
> 
> But allow me to make this plain: DO not let her timidity fool you. This new Character is capable of stirring up great trouble for Mr and Mrs Kenworthy, do not underestimate her! Love, after all, is a very powerful driving force. and Jealousy, an even stronger one.
> 
> \- Author

 

 

~

 

Anabelle Hastings was, for lack of a better, more _elegant_ phrase that was becoming to eligible young ladies, _beside herself._

No matter what she found to occupy herself, she could _not_ keep still. Her whole body fluttered with spasming, excitable nerves. So much so that if she sat, she would jiggle her leg up and down again on the spot, which would enormously annoy her sister, whom she sat next to. Flora Hastings had to softly slap her fan down onto her younger sister’s thigh to encourage her into keeping still. But even that didn’t help. Flora rolled her brown eyes, watching Anabelle flit away to go and get herself a refreshment, to try and excorcise her twitchiness. And this didn’t help her one jot either, even from across the room. Flora could see she still wrung her fan in her hands, or fiddle with her gloves, and tapped her slippered feet nervously to the floor tiles of Sir Robert Compton’s grand ballroom where they where all housed.

In just a few short moments, Anabelle would see _him_ again. It was no withheld knowledge that every year, he went to London for the season which began in April. Torn away from his home to go and hunt for a Bride. And she heard he had returned just this week gone, home to the grandeur of Chatsworth Manor, and she had checked _three_ times with Sir Robert himself. He had confirmed with a rumbling laugh of his, that he would, _for definate_ , be in attendence this evening. Sir Robert was his _very_ good particular friend, so it was _ascertain_ that he would come. _‘You can put your shinniest penny on it, Miss Hastings’_ he had said. It would be the height of rudeness for him not to attend. And if there was one, of the _many_ attributes the man was, she remembered, rude was most certainly _not_ among them.

 _Oh, how_ she had missed him. She hadn’t seen him for almost _five_ years now. She herself having been away in away staying for a long time with her uncle in Kent. Which was the height of ridiculousness. They had been so close when they were both younger. Almost inserperable. Their families oft joked and hinted at a marriage match being made between them, which he smiled nicely at, and she spent her long summers groing up, hoping one day, as such would come true. It was not as if she could forget _every summer_ she and he spent, as children, exploring together, the wonderful wilderness of Derbyhsire. On his father’s huge estate. Which was entirely _his_ now. He was a landed gentlemen, after all.

Her eyes were glued to the imperial staircase, which split into two, and led down to the sea of ladies and gentleman crowded onto the ballroom floor all about her. It was a most pleasant scene, the country gentry all filed out, in their very best silks and coat tails for this event. The candles glittered gold on the gilded walls, and the air buzzed with chatter and laughter, and the low thrum of the musicians, playing a soft melody far in the corner. Knowing Sir Robert’s taste, it would be something classical and long, with very complex movement’s and passages.

Anabelle despaired, she really did. Not _one_ of the peoples who were now slowly bleeding into the ballroom was the Gentleman whom she had been dreaming of, for all the years she had been away. No name which was called was his. She wondered if he would be as _handsome_ now, as he always was back when she knew him, tall, lean, dark haired, with blue eyes that could shame most sapphires. She _had dreamed_ of this _so_ many times. Too many to count.

He would stride in, tall, powerful and proud, and _march_ across the ballroom. Cutting a swathe to get directly to her, uncaring for whom parted in his way. And those _burning_ blue eyes of his would be looking _directly, at her_ , and _her alone_.Whereby he would then stop as he came to her, drop to one knee right before her, and ask her for her hand in marriage, to be his wife. In which she would weep her response in joy.

Of course, she knew it was the _height_ of silliness to expect him to propose _right away._ They would have to get reacquainted first. Of course. She was _no idiot_. He would not rush blindly into marriage with a girl whom he faintly knew. But of course, he would remember _her_ , he remembered everyone. Especially the grown up lady, who had once been the freckled, waify little girl, who’d been his best friend, and whom, one day, he had _vowed_ , as a dark haired litle boy, that they would marry. And live happily together in a cottage in the woods. As he had promised one lazy summers afternoon, when they were playing together, running through the greenery of Chatsworth woods. And of course, when one was eight years old, one didn’t have a firm grasp of what being married really involved.

But as Anabelle grew, she found she admired that day dream very much. She would love him as ardently as she had always done. The love only having grown stronger with all their years apart.

In her despair, her feet walked her back over to her family. Slumping her fidgety frame down onto the setee next to her sister, once more.

“ _Stop fidgeting_ , Anabelle. He’ll be here soon, and then you may go and torment his heart out, to your absolute content.”

Flora uttered in annoyance.

“I’m not going to torment him!” She insisted in a surprised squeak.

“You’re just tormenting all of us with your _damn_ twitching!” Flora growled.

“ _Flora_.”

Their mother snapped from across the adjacent setee, frowning at her elder daughters use of language.

“Leave the girl alone, she is just excitable.”

Their mother defended.

Again, Flora rolled her big brown eyes at this.

“It’s annoying.”

Flora mumbled under her breath.

Lady Hastings muttered something, feeling her temples strain at the irked nature of her elder daughter who was easily grated against by her younger sibling.

“Flora. He shall arrive soon, then Anabelle will be off of our hands, and gladly reunited with the man whom she so eagerly awaits..”

Their mother told wisely.

“Let’s all hope so. Then we might get some peace and quiet”

Flora huffed, slumping back in her seat.

“She has been waiting to see him since she was 18, before she was sent away. They were very close friends, Flora.”

“She’s only excited because she thinks he’ll come in here, drop to his knee and marry her.”

“Hush your negativity, he very well might..”

Lady Hastings winked to a now blushing Anabelle.

“Mother…”

Anabelle smiled, telling her off, but at the same time, very much hoping her statement would come true.

“I wager he’ll march right to you, My dear, and propose right where you now sit, when he comes…”

Her father, Sir Colin Hastings chuckled, his face reddened fron the wine he had partaken, and his fat cheeks creased with a smile.

“Do you truly think so my dear? He has been away a long while? And the seasons in London are full of-“ Lady Hastings began.

“What London dandy could possibly have a patch on our _lovely_ Anabelle?”

Sir Hastings asked. Making her blush further. Of course, she was no raving beauty. But her beauty had grown over the years. She had a soft, radiant look. Full lips, long dark hair, and a lovely pair of deep brown eyes. She was no diamond of the first water, but she did have a certain innocent elegance to her beauty.

“She how her _cheeks redden!_ And that _smile. She must_ think me right!” Sir Hastings chuckled.

Lady Hastings smiled at her younger daughter.

“Papa. Really…. _Hush_.”

Anabelle smiled. Her brown eyes still fixed on the stairs, waiting to see him.

“Yes, _please, do_.”

Came a groan from Flora. Slumped in the middle of them for this arduous conversation. She was sure she would be wrinkling her pea green gown, but really. She didn’t care _one bit._ This party was boring, and Anabelle was so nervous and on edge, it was _palpable_. And annoying.

“I give you _my word_ upon it my dear…”

Sir Hastings predicted.

“He is a fine gentleman, the finest. And he shall make good on the offer he made years ago, when they were young, jilting our pretty girl. Make no mistake.”

Sir Hastings smiled.

Anabelle smiled, though she was turned towards the stairs. Her stomach dropped to her feet, as she saw a very familiar woman whom was cloesly related to the man. That meant he was not two paces behind!!

She leapt from her seat and would have very inelegantly tore through the ballroom, to get closer to the stairs. Had her mother not lain a gentle hand on her arm and informed her, that was _not becoming_ for a debutante of three and twenty, she best remain composed. Anabelle stood, grinning ear to ear as she heard the names of his family announced.

“Lady Iris Thatcher-Kenworthy, and Miss Edith Thatcher Kenworthy of Chatsworth Estate..”

Came the boom from the announcer.

“He’s here.”

Anabelle whispered to her mother, whom grinned, seeing how elated her daughter was.

“The Right Honourable Gentleman, His Lordship, The Duke of Chatsworth…”

Came the elegantly pronounced roar, ehcoing above the dim music and the voices.

Anabelle was sure her heart was in her ears, her brain at her feet, and her stomach was somewhere of the coast of _china_.

She saw him. She saw the tall, lean, dashingly dark haired and breath takingly good looking man whom she was mad in love with, appear at the top of the stairs, smiling that lovely smile to the room before him as he glided slowly, and elegantly to the banister.

“… Sir Thomas Kenworthy…”

Even hearing his name left her breathless, and seeing him made fireworks tear across her body. But she noticed something, what- why was he holding out his elbow as if he wanted someone to take it-

Anabelle found out that It took less than fifteen words to break her heart, and shatter her dreams.

She missed the winces that her mother and father gave to one another behind her, mouths hung a little slack. Heck, even the miserable likes of Flora looked a tad shocked. A woman glided to his side, smiling as she took his arm. He lovingly touched her hand as she came to him. Even from here she could see the warm love lingering in his eyes for the red haired beauty by his side. She was no family member. He was looking at her, the way all women dreamed men would look at them. Like they were the only enchanting creature on earth. He smiled to the lady at his side, studying her flawless beauty.

Anabelle found she couldn’t draw breath. And her chest felt as if it had been run through with a spear. Her heart sagged in her chest. Coming loose, sinking sadly like a boat, drifting without its anchor.

“…And Lady Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, The Duchess of Chatsworth.”

The speaker bellowed across the ballroom.

Her mother squeezed her hand tight. And mumbled her name.

She didn’t feel it. Nor hear it. She couldn’t.

 

Anabelle couldn’t hear it for the sound of her heart _breaking_

 

 

 

_._

 

~


	56. Bothersome Nieces, Troublesome Sisters, and The Infallable Wit of Elizabeth Kenworthy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More finery and love, wit and conversation to come, I assure you...

 

 

~ Edith's Gown ~

~ Thomas's Cravat and Waistcoat ~

(Elizabeth's and Iris's Dresses are shown in Chapter 54, titled: _Aftermath's, Gift's and Pretty Wives_...)

 

 

 

 _The curse_ , Thomas noted to himself, as he prowled up and down the foyer, of living _with a whole house_ of female relatives and loved ones. Was that due to all the frippery, preening and elegant dress that was required of them, they rarely made good time upon being punctual, _anywhere_ they went.

The clack of his echoing footfalls striking the tiles, stopped as he pulled out his silver watch fob and examined the time. Not in the least bit surprised to find they should have all been out of the door _ten_ minutes _ago_. He had bathed, barely even spent five minutes fixing his hair into respectability, and then pulled on his freshly tailored clothes, of which fit like a dream. In odes to René Làndry’s exquisite taste in fabrics and fashion, she had made sure that his clothes would be a graceful extension of his body, the pale colours of such throwing his eyes and skin tone into brilliancy. He wore the new cravat, waistcoat, and soft cotton shirt with his engraved silver cufflinks, and his black velvet tailcoat. His legs looked dastardly long, his strong thighs only framed by the black breeches, with gleaming silver buttons, and his boots were shined to within an inch of their life by his expert Butler, and his valet, Wheatley, had helped pick a homburg black top hat, and his finest long thick greatcoat. Of which now sat folded over his arm as he tapped his foot impatiently on the black and white foyer floor, awaiting _any_ of the three females accompanying him to Clifton Park tonight. _Truly. Anyone_ would do.

His dazzling blue eyes snapped up, chin held high as he listened to the approaching footfalls scurring through the house. And a blur of blue caught his skin, and lo and behold, there, up the top of the grand staircase, elegantly making her way down. Was his lovely eldest Niece. Edith. She held her heavy velvet skirts in one hand, and her reticule and cloak draped down from her other. Thomas smiled up at her. Her hair was twisted away from her beautiful face, secured with pins that caught the low glittering light when she moved, arranged into dark coils. Dangling from her small ivory ears, were tiny pearl droplet earrings. Her dress was a pale blue, trimmed diagonally across her slender bust with white lace, and with a row of scarlet red roses leading down her front. The neckline was modest, for a debutantes gown. The back slid lower, cutting just across her shoulderblades. It was a gown that enhanced her pale skin, and her eyes. And balconies of grey lace adorned the hem. It looked absolutely _charming_ on her.

As she got to the bottom, she crossed to her uncle, who was still smiling at the loveliness of his niece. Where had that little girl he once knew gone? That tiny screaming pink bundle of jet black hair and blue eyes so alike Iris’s it was uncanny. He remembers first seeing his little relative when she was a newborn, and weighed no more than a five ounce bag of sugar, opening her little grey orbs for the first time, examining her kind uncle, and the world around her. He remarked that there was a proper, and elegant young lady stood taking that little bundle’s place now. It also made him feel impossibly ancient in his years. But this he kept to himself.

“Edith, you look enchanting…”

He smiled warmly, seeing her cheeks flushed obviously at that. Taking her white gloved hand, and kissing it. And she was wearing the scent that René had gifted her. I was a demure vanilla and jasmine perfume. It was soft yet vibrant. _Just like her._

“This is the first proper ball gown I’ve ever owned. I hope I don’t look like lamb dressed as mutton.”

She offered with a frown pinching her dark brows, biting her lip in unease. Smoothing her white glove down her front. Thomas saw she still held her shoes in her free hand, clearly she had been rushed to get downstairs, knowing her uncle was awaiting on his ladies. So far, 1 out of 3 was not too bad. Now they would only be _fifteen_ minutes late.

“Don’t be silly. You look like _a lovely little lamb_.”

Thomas grinned, teasing her, seeing it made a smile fly to her face.

Edith rolled her eyes as she smiled.

“I hate to inform you, but I am not so swayed by that compliment as I was when I was eight years old..”

She smiled. He offered her his hand for balance as she threw her reticule into his arms, which he staggered under the weight of. _What on heaven and earth did she keep in there? Bricks?_ He remarked as she slid on her shoes. Dainty little blue heels trimmed with bows and pearls slid easily onto her white stockinged feet.

“I’ll bare that in mind. But I was only insisting upon how becoming your dress looks on you. How careless of me to pay a young lady such a compliment. _And what in heavens name_ is in _this thing?_ ” He asked, holding up her reticule in his one hand.

“Because to me, it feels as if you have begun caddying _rocks_ about.” He smarmed.

With her shoes now on her feet, and her skirts rediposited back to the floor. She took it from him with a smile. A very glad, and only all too eager smile.

“Books.” She beamed.

“ _Books?_ ” Thomas asked.

“Leather bound, papery things, often found with a lot of these newfangled things called _words_ printed in them.” She sassed.

Thomas glared at her. His jaw stiff.

“And -you feel need to take the books out for an _airing_? To _stretch their legs?_ ” He asked, sassing her now.

“No.” She blinked. She then shrugged.

“It is just in case, I. well. In case there is a very particular breed of stupid afflicting all the people at Sir Robert’s ball tonight. Then I can sit in some corner in the more eloquent and sensible company of the always intelligent Mrs Elizabeth Gaskell.” She grinned.

Thomas tested the weighty bag in his hand once more. lifting it up and down, challenging the heaviness of the contents.

“ _Just._. Elizabeth Gaskell?”

He asked her, narrowing his eyes. Raising his brows. He was not familiar with her works. But her bag was far too bulging for him to not to be mistrustful. He knew Edith better than that.

She shrunk down at his sly gaze, not meeting his eyes, fidgeting. Iris did that too when she was uncomfortable, and sheepish.

“… _and John Keats. And H G Wells too_ …”

She muttered quietly. _So low,_ he almost didn’t hear it.

“They’re my, go to, emergency, ‘ _this assembly is dull as dishwater’_ books.” She insisted.

Thomas handed her back her grey velvet reticule with a overly sly smile at how correct his predictions had been.

“Your _portable Library_ , Mi’Lady..” He japed.

Edith took it in her hands, still looking sheepish, and a little worn down. And he _couldn’t have that._

He hugged her close, resting his lips on her hair after pressing a kiss to her coal black, silky tresses. Pulling her willowly frame close, and hugging her lovingly. Rubbing a conforting hand down her upper arm.

“I love that you are our lovely bookworm. Edith. I _always have_ , and I _always will_. You have a brain the size of a planet, and a beautiful _beautiful_ mind. You could quote _circles_ around those other airheaded idiots your age, and possibly _most philosiphers_ in London. I only tease because I _love_ you.”

He smiles, seeing she softened at that.

“Besides, I daren’t disagree with you. I fear if I do. That thing shall be violently relocated on my feet. And I _don’t fancy_ my toes being _crushed_ tonight.”

He smiled, making her laugh.

“Reading is not the most terrible crime in the world.” She offered.

“Indeed it isn’t.” Thomas smiled.

“…And H G Wells would do well to add a bit of fantasy and flavour to any dull ballroom, packed to the rafters with adle brained simpletons with the accumulative weight of all their brains between them amounting to the mass of a pea.” Thomas winked.

“Precisely.” Edith nodded.

“For _gods sakes_ don’t let _your mother_ see them, she’ll _try_ and tell you off.”

“You and I both know, My mother couldn’t say boo to a goose.” Edith grinned.

Thomas chuckled. And that was when they both heard the second footfalls rushing down from atop the grand staircase. They turned about, to see none other than the kind humble lady whom couldn’t say boo to a goose, nor _any other_ barnyard animal for that matter. Heck, Iris probably couldn’t even scare off a _mouse_. She held her skirts aloft coming down the stairs, so she didn’t end up flat on her face. Thomas beamed up at her. It was unusual to see his sister in a gown of such a vibrant colour. Her gown glowed a radiant soft pink in the light Her hair too, like her daughters, was twisted up into some artful bun that he could never remember the name of. Snowy white gloves reached up to her elbows, and the corseted gown showed off her figure, demurely, but a little more than Edith’s did. Iris was a widowed lady, and Edith, a young debutante, therefore the elder woman could have more of a leeway in what she wore. The shape enhanced her slender tall figure that was a trait shared by both Kenworthy siblings. Her paleness was made look supple, and her rouged cheeks complimented by the colour of the dress. Iris never wore things that were usually so, well. As horrible as it sounded. Elegant. Ever since John’s passing, Thomas noted her dress became plain and her colour choices remained both neutral and natural. She preffered cool blues, greys, or dull cold tones. But here she was, her beauty _singing merrily_ in the warm shade of this gorgeous dress.

She came to her eldest and her brother – though he was only older than her by _three_ and a half _mere minutes_ – and smiled lovingly at her daughter, and her beaming relative, who was examining her with proud love lingering in his eyes.

“What is it?” Iris asked with a touch of humility to her tone.

“You don’t usually wear pink, Irie...”

Thomas noted with a soft smile, and his hands behind his back. _Two out of three_ ladies was _nearly_ a positive result, he supposed silently to himself.

Iris smiled, looking down at her dress before she met his eyes again. Smoothing out the skirts that trained a little behind her. Thomas could now see she had a pretty diamond necklace about her neck, which dripped a singular pearl down to her clavicle. And small glittering diamond studs in hear ears. Shining, even amongst the wisps of her dark hair that hung there.

“It was a _gift_. It is a different coloured dress, Thomas. You’re looking at me as if I sprouted another _limb_..”

Iris remarked gently.

Thomas frowned.

“A gift from _whom_?” He asked.

“Someone very familiar to this family.” Iris teased.

Thomas glared, again. _Like mother like daughter._ Unfortunately so for his sake…

“Don’t be coquettish, Iris…” Thomas growled.

“You have intolerably little _patience_ this evening, dear brother…” She remarked to herself.

He sighed, closing his eyes. _In despair_.

“Probably owed to the fact that I’ve been waiting down here for nearly _half of an hour,_ now.” He added.

“Patience..” Iris began.

“If you end that sentence with, _‘is a virtue_ ’ then so help me I shall make you _walk_ to Clifton Park.” He warned.

“Elizabeth.” Iris stated.

“ _What?_ ”

Thomas asked, half wondering if he didn’t black out a part of this conversation.

“Elizabeth bought dresses enough for all of us, from Màdamé Làndry’s.” Iris explained.

“Though I _do love_ teasing and japing you and making you loose your foothold on your tolerance until that vein in your neck starts popping..."

 Iris smirked, with all the well rehearsed annoyance that only a younger sister could boast of.

Thomas rolled his eyes.

“And here, we thought you’d never say _boo_ to a goose..” Edith remarked to her mother.

“Depends on the goose.”

Iris smiled funnily. Winking at her daughter.

“Did my _darling wife_ happen to mention how many more decades she would keep us waiting for?” Thomas asked.

“She _did_ have to multitask in her defence…” Edith pointed out.

Thomas frowned, not understanding.

“Judith was clamouring madly and most insistant on Princess Auntie Elizabeth to read her a bedtime story. We compromised. Did it in shifts. Elizabeth had to rush to be laced into her gown. Do not fret, she will be down shortly, I’m sure.” Iris smiled.

“ _Oh, Judith_.” Thomas chuckled.

“Besides. Dear. If you think we look lovely, wait til you see _your wife_.” Iris winked.

Thomas’s eyes snapped to hers. _Oh, his curiousity was well and truly piqued now._ That was before he felt he need protect his gentlemanly virtue to his teasing kid sister.

“And I _never_ fret.” He snapped with a whine.

Iris gave him a look that told him she _really didn’t_ believe him. As did Edith.

“ _I don’t!_ ” He held out.

“ _So_ the time when I wanted to take the carriage to Castleton by myself to go book shopping at Gulliver  & Sterling, and because of your worrying, you would not let me to go without the burly help of Ramsey, Willard and Hastings being not three paces behind me the whole time.” Edith spoke.

“Castleton is _no place_ for an unaccompanied ten and six year old…”

Thomas warned, pointing his finger at his stubbon niece. Plus Gulliver & Sterling Books and Co, was _far too close_ , for his liking, to one of Castleton’s public houses, The Ivory Harp, and lord only knows what drunken sorts clutter the place, or spill out onto the pavement at all hours of the day. But whatever drunkards staggered out of there, would not, on pain of death, come face to face with an innocent and pure debutante like his niece, just out harmlessly shopping for new novels of a Thursday afternoon. Drink turned some men to no more than _animals_.

“Or the time, I wanted to ride Bess across the meadow to call upon Penelope near the woods, you said…” Iris asked, seeking his input to end her sentence.

“The ground was _wet,_ and that horse was _old!_ ” Thomas pointed out.

Iris smiled. Tucking an arm about her daughter.

“I think, Sir, we have bested you.” Edith smiled.

Thomas _really was_ annoyed now. If he _hadn’t been_ before…

“Excuse me for caring for my _troublesome_ sister and her _bothersome_ daughter..” Thomas grumped, folding his arms and grumpily muttering at them.

“I think we’re now _walking_ to Clifton Park.” Edith observed to her mother.

Iris chuckled.

“I suppose we should be heartened over such familial care and sentiment to our well being…” Iris spoke aloud. Seeing Thomas still had his arms moodily folded, not looking at either of them.

But they both distinctly heard a _‘you’re damn right’_ muttered under his breath. In a rich, deep growl.

“How will we _ever_ make him forgive us?”

Edith asked to her mother. Like they were staging and performing a very poor play.

“Appeal to his _loving_ nature. For he nows he would be bored out _his very skull_ without us here to _irk_ him, to lend _a dash_ of variability to his day…”

Iris smiled. Before she heard a dainty clack of heels echo through the house, which he did not. She turned to see Elizabeth gently pick her way down the stairs, her cloak in her hand, which also held her skirts aloft so no tripping occured. _Really,_ someone ought _rethink the length_ of ladies skirts, they tended to get in the way no matter what task they performed.

“… And also inform him that is most unbecoming for a gentleman such as a Duke to show such _stroppy_ insolence in front of _his beloved Duchess_ …” Iris supposed in a bland tone.

They nearly both laughed at the way he whipped around at that. The ball of his foot spun a full 90 degrees, so he twisted quickly in the direction they spoke of.

To see, indeed, the wonderfully radiant vision of his wife now glided down the stairs towards the small party. The look that flashed across his face when he saw his wife, Iris noted, was both the most wonderful and romantic thing she had ever seen. He looked like the heavens had opened up above him, in odes to the small proud and grateful smile that lined his lips, and his eyes shone like sapphire flaxen to his beautiful wife. _She took his breath away._

Her stunning body draped in a champagne silk coloured dress, lined with silk painted flowers, lace, and chiffon. He saw a peep of her elegant shoes and her stockinged legs as she strode down the stairs. Her arms left bare, and her hair arranged into some assortment of red coils, piled elegantly atop her head, pinned back in the most neat way that he wanted to sink his hands into, and _ruin_. She had long silky gloves pulled to her elbows, and the dress, like Iris’s, bore no sleeves, but she had a gold lined, midnight blue cloak to swathe herself in so that she did not get cold in the chill of the night air.

Elizabeth bit her lip as she descended the stairs. Smiling at the heated gaze that brushed over her entire body due to her husband’s inelegantly improper look. One that told her he wanted to march her back up those stairs, and see how excellent she looked _out_ of the gown, aswell.

“You’ll burn _holes_ , Mr Kenworthy. Staring like that.”

Elizabeth pointed out drily with a smile, as she rounded the bottom of the stairs. Crossing the foyer to her family. Just as everyone stood, pulling on their cloaks, and preparing to venture bravely out into the frigid cold, blustery night. Into the awaiting coach sat just outside on the drive.

“Then stop being the most striking woman to _look at_ … Mrs Kenworthy.”

Thomas smiled in an order, taking both her golden gloved hands, and squeezing them. Bringing them up to his lips, and placing a kiss across the back of them.

“I shall endeavour to try _my hardest_..”

Elizabeth smiled back, as he helped gather her body into her cloak. Using that as a sordid excuse of reeling her body closer into his own. Nearly pressing them chest to chest as he tied the knot of her cape, that lingered close to her bust. His warm knuckles grazing against the soft swell of her bosom as he did up the bow for her. He was grinning that rakes grin at her again. The one he usually reserved for seducing her, as he did. Seeing the shape of her breasts were enhanced and pushed high by the corset that also made her figure look slender and _very fine_ , to his _hungry_ eyes.

And when he spoke, his voice was that sinful rasp, the rasp he also typically used with which to purr and growl dirty things into her ear as he nipped down her neck. Watching her ivory skin flush because of him. And whatever sordid secrets he poured into her ears to make her knees go weak.

“ _Don’t_.”

He ordered in a sin worthy tone, and an even worse rakish grin. That was all husk, and throat to listen to.

Iris and Edith shared a look at the loving gazes their Uncle was sending across to his wife.

“We’ll be in the carriage. Thomas. _Try_ to hurry, and not keep Elizabeth otherwise _indiposed_ for too long with whatever vague and pathetic excuse you conjour up...”

Iris smiled, as she guided her debutante daughter away. Steering her away by the shoulder before she caught sight of indecent man and wifely things. She quickly spirited Edith away, out of the hall and through the front door.

“There is _a true love_ match, and no less.”

Edith remarked with wonder as her mother waited, with Hastings, their beloved footman, kindly taking her daughter’s hand.

“I wish one day, I will meet a man who looks at me the way Uncle Thomas looks at Elizabeth. Why, he looked at her just now as if she were his entire world…”

Edith remarked with love and wonder to her tone, Iris climbed up, to join her.

“You should be so lucky, Edith, and I am certain you shall be.” Iris smiled warmly at her. Hoping they wouldn’t have to wait too long.

Meanwhile, Inside, Thomas was busy reeling his wife close, kissing her like there would be no tomorrow, crushed to one anothers hot bodies now, pressing a hand to the back of her waist, as her golden gloved hand stroked down over the side of his excellently sharp jaw. And his free hand smoothed down her bare upper arm. Her skin was always so brilliantly soft. She then felt the hand that was touching her arm, reach up and slowly pull away a hairpin slotted into her thick tresses, down at the nape of her neck. He pulled back to watch one coil of sultry red hair curl over the front of her shoulder. Making her look like tempation _alive,_ and personified in front of him. He smiled filthily at his achievement. Blue eyes glittering, and his smile could have felled an abstinant nun. He pocketed the golden hairpin in his waistcoat pocket. 

“You _lost_ a hairpin. Hence why were _so long_..” He ordered. Before she linked her arm though his, and he led her outside.

“ _Oh_ , of course. Nothing to do with my husband being devious…”

Elizabeth supposed in a flirty tone as they walked to the front door.

“Though, I don’t have an explanation as to why your lips are _so red_ , and… air starved.”

Thomas smiled like the scoundrel he was. He then winked across to her.

“I’m sure you’ll find one.”

Elizabeth beamed as they clambered into the carriage. She thanked Hastinsg as he smiled, helping her in.

She had to be very silent though, not leting out a peep, when Thomas pinched her bottom under her dress.

He looked pleased with himself for the entire ride to Clifton Park.

 

~

 

 

 

 


	57. ~ Meet some New Character's ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because it's always handy to have some visuals....

 

 

 

 

~ Meet some of the Derbyshire Folk ~

 

 

~ Sir Robert Compton and Lady Henrietta Compton ~

~ The ever Dashing reverend, Hugh Everett ~

(I know I've posted one of him already, but I just like looking at him!)

 

 

~ The scowling Anabelle Hastings ~

 

 

 

~ The Always Irked, Flora Hastings ~

 

~ Lady Selina Hastings, Anabelle and Flora's Mother ~

 

 

~ The Young Henry McKinnon ~

note: He is the _only boy_ ever to capture Edith's attention away from a book... wink wink

 

 

~ The Rake-like Sir Rupert Farrell ~

Who may have his eye set firmly on Iris, and warning:  _is not all he seems..._

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 


	58. Mr and Mrs Compton's Warm Welcome, Clifton Park, and the Poisonous words of Miss Anabelle Hastings...

 

~

 

 

 

 

As the carriage rumbled along, Elizabeth, feeling the cold perhaps a little more as her arms were bare under her cloak, merrily cozied up into her husbands side. Facing Iris and Edith as they all four, rumbled along in the darkness of the comfortable carriage. Lit only by the light of the bright moon that struggled through the gaps the leaves left in the trees, In the branches passing over the coach.

Thomas happily welcomed his beautiful wife to curl up into his side. He lifted his shoulder up, and slung his arm to settle across the back of her waist. His head leaning to one side to nestle atop her hair. The disturbed night they had both had the night gone was starting to take it’s toll upon them now. Thomas was sure by the end of the night, he would have deep dark bags under his eyes like black hammocks showcasing how little sleep he had gotten, by the end of tonight’s ball, he’d relish nothing more than flopping onto his soft bed with his love by his side. Perferably, with her being in some little wispy slip of a silk nightgown that could tempt him to stay awake a little longer.

He sighed, inhaling deeply, the scent of Elizabeth filling his senses. The sweet fragrance of her lavender soaps that she used on her hair, and the utterly delightful French perfume that René gifted her with. Her squeezed her close. Not able to get enough of this delectable lady that made his days and life worthwhile. Smiling, feeling the velvet softness draping her figure glide under his hand as he did. Elizabeth let her eyes flutter shut with a smile as she was embraced fully by her husband, sinking into the paradise that the strong wall of his chest exclusively offered to her. She too smiled. Breathing in the scent of her groomed and handsome husband. The somewhat unknown source of mint that was woven into his clothes, the must of ancient paper from where he had been in his study today, she imagines. And then there was the undertone of the sparkling clean shaving soap and spicy and subtle cologne which he used.

Edith nudged Iris in the side, as her mother was busy marvelling at the moon’s bare glory out of the coach window. Iris was tugged back, looking to her Eldest to see what was the matter. She smiled as Edith motioned toward the now dozing Duke and Duchess opposite them. Wrapped up in each other, looking very much rested and contented.

“I think they’ll be sound _asleep_ before we even reach Clifton Park.”

Edith smiled. Retouching back on her remark when she and Iris had first entered the carriage earlier. Seeing her mother smile as the carriage bumped along a rough patch in the road.

“I have ears, Ed. You _little cheek_.”

Thomas grumbled. His head still slumped over his wife's. But Edith could see his bright blue eyes, hooded from tiredness, pierced across at her from the dark carriage.

“Though I think I may have to empathise with your comment, Edith.” Came an interjection from Elizabeth. Iris chuckled.

“I couldn’t believe my ears when you told us about it at breakfast. It’s so ghastly. It’s never happened to us before. _Who on earth_ would do such a _terrible_ thing?” Iris asked to her brother, regarding the almost break in that occurred last eve.

“ _Oh, Iris_.” Thomas chuckled amusedly.

“You are _too_ good..”

He rewarded her. She would always be known for being the Kenworthy with the good nature which could rival a very saint themselves. Iris never found badness in anyone. She always looked for the good in the people. Thomas almost envied her. He wished possesed the skil to see the decency and kindess in others, like his sister perpetually did. No matter whom.

“..It is frightful to think what gruesome intentions they may have had, had they gained entry into the house..”

Edith pointed out, looking a little unnerved by the matter.

Her remark even served to make Thomas’s blood run a degree or two colder. The thought that had the burglar not been interceptred, that he may have crept through the silent dark house, and harmed any one member of his beloved family, caused a bitter bile to rise in his throat in horror of the bone chilling notion. He didn’t know if he almost preferred the fact that Elizabeth had stopped the man. But then again, the slight swell of rage and protectiveness swelled up in his gut when he thought of her giving chase to a dangerous criminal in the dark gardens, somehow suggested that he was stuck between which situation outweighed the other.

“Well. We should be thankful that they didn’t. And I spoke the the Police Inspector Riswell this afternoon, he has agreed to post two police men either end of Chatsworth drive. Both front and back. The servants have the night off, and as Wilkin’s so assured me, all are on their guard. If that, person, attempts entry into our house again. Well we shall know of it.” Thomas assured his relatives and his spouse.

“Let’s forget it for the night. Shall we? Let us all enjoy Robert Compton’s Ball as a happy distraction.” Elizabeth spoke up. Before they spent the night cowering in fear from what had happened to them all.

“A Grand Idea. Besides, I haven’t seen Sir Robert since this November gone. Though I suspect he will not have changed one bit.” Thomas smiled.

“I have not seem him since I was back in the _schoolroom_ atleast.” Edith offered.

“He was positively _fawn_ over you, My dear.” Iris promised. “He too adores literature, you shall be two peas in a pod upon the matter.” She promised.

“Have you known him for a long time?” Elizabeth asked.

“I always remember every christmas, save for the lavish presents that Thomas spoiled us with, crowding all the space under the tree, that the next equally as lavish one, would be from Sir Robert for me, Mother, Thomas and Judith. Always personally signed, he did not get a servant to sign it. Always written in his own hand. He is a very generous and kind man. Are large as he is jolly.” Edith smiled in fond nostaliga.

“I’m sure I shall adore him. It will be so lovely to meet someone who loves you all almost as fondly as I do.” Elizabeth beamed.

Thomas grinned, and pressed a kiss to feiry her hair for that.

“Plus you shall get to see Clifton Park. Which is _almost_ twice as beautiful as Chatsworth.” Iris added.

“I can’t wait. It seems to me that Derbyshire hosts some, if not _all_ , of the most elegant stately homes in england. It must be something in the air in this county.” Elizabeth smiled gently.

“Do I sense some home loyalty there, Irie?”

Thomas spoke with good humour and a wry smile on his face.

“Of course. You know I could never adore another house finer in England whilst Chatsworth still reigns.” Iris smiled.

“Well bred devotion. I applaud you.” Thomas grinned dryly.

Elizabeth and Edith laughed at that. At the pair of them.

It was then that their carriage lurched to the left, crunching gravel under the wheels, as it turned down a torch lit drive, and lumbered along, slower now, behind the pace of other coaches still arriving. Elizabeth looked past Thomas to peer past the drive, looking up toward the house, to see a grand limestone building leering out of the darkness to welcome her. There was no doubt that this was a perfectly handsome house. But Elizabeth noted, it was beautiful and grand in ways that Chatsworth Manor was not. But by that same measure, Chatsworth’s splendour outweighed some of this houses features. She noted it looked far more of georgian design from the moment it first struck her eyes. Whereas she knew that half of Chatsworth had been designed by a mad frenchman, but Clifton park was a thoroughly english house. Build tall, out of pale cotswold stone. A triangular porch loomed out of the front of it, held up by four towering pillars. The grand old place boasted of more than 2 floors, each window lit up like a beacon, shining out into the dark, awaiting all the visitors who were soon to arrive at it. It was a very merrily situated house, with the lake glinting torchlight off its shimmering ink depths.

“It is a _very_ charming House.” Elizabeth remarked softly.

“Though to me, it doesn’t hold a candle to Chatsworth. Our Home.” She added, just to make her husband smile.

They sat awaiting the carriage to pull up through a brick arch, into a little rounded court yard, there was a thick green carpet reaching out of the well lit doors to welcome them. Aswell as many numerous uniformed staff milling about, all dressed in beige uniforms that shone gold in the torchlight. Like the clothes of people belonging in some magical faitytale. They were helping people down from carriages, and giving them a warm welcome with their smiles that most ladies and gentlemen, either returned or ignored.

When it came their turn in the procession to exit their carriage. Thomas leapt out, smiling to the staff about him, first helping down Iris and Edith at Elizabeth’s insistance. They were on the doors side, after all. She gathered her skirts, and gently stepped down, the carriage rocking back on its suspension as the last person left it, she came down onto the steps, with her husbands hand helping her all the way. Elizabeth and Thomas turned and thanked Ramsey, Willard and Hastings, who nodded their hats back in fondness. They truly did have the kindest Master and Mistress of them all, they noted. Before Ramsey thwacked the horses reigns lightly, and the carriage jerked away, circling about the coach yard, and back down the drive they had come down.

All four of them made their way inside, gliding down the beautifully, and expensively furnished halls. Following the other throngs of people that were wandering into the house before them. Wives clinging onto the elbows of their husbands. As it was, they eventually came to a grand set of double doors, where ladies and gentlemen would hand their calling cards, to be announced by the caller ahead of them in the ballroom. Iris came to him first, and he ticked her’s and Edith’s name from the attendant list. And they strode into the room ahead of Thomas and Elizabeth, to the sound of their names floating to the rafters advancing them.

“Lady Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, and Miss Edith Thatcher Kenworthy of Chatsworth Estate…” Came the shout proceeding them.

The Duke and Duchess watched them go.

“Ready my love?” Thomas asked to his Elizabeth, who smiled widely.

“More than I’ll ever be.” She answered.

He gave her that tummy flipping, heart melting grin. Before he walked her forwards, his wife still on his arm, as he wished the caller a good evening, before giving him their names. Including their formal titles of course. She couldn’t help it, her body still spasmed in pleasure whenever she heard their names together, a lovely little reminder that she was his Duchess of Chastworth. His Mrs Elizabeth Kenworthy.

“Very good Mi’lord.”

The caller bowed, before he bellowed their names to rind high across the room ahead of them, over the sound of a fluent classical piece from the band in the corner.

“The Right Honourable Gentleman, His Lordship, The Duke of Chatsworth…”

Thomas strode in first, Elizabeth took a moment, fixing her gloves and thanking the caller before she joined the handsome man before her, smiling to the room ahead of him as he held his arm out for her. Smiling beautifully as she took it, eyes sweeping over her radiant face.

“And her Ladyship, Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, The Duchess of Chatsworth.” The speaker bellowed.

The Kenworthys walked together, down the elegant imperial staircase. Elizabeth’s arm crooked in her husbands hold, as a hundred pairs of eyes watched them angelically glide down the stairs. They came to the tiled ballroom floor, joining Iris and Edith, who Elizabeth could see were speaking to a rather portly man, and a mature and very pretty older woman by his side. Both dressed in finery and extravagently rich dress. The man, she assumes was the famed and much beloved Sir Robert Compton, Owner of Clifton Park. He was a stout man, this there was no denying. His face was old and kind, and his smile shone through any bitterness that a severely rich man of his welth would have, in lording over people. _Company, company,_ he enjoyed nothing more than _good company_. He was talking to Iris, his deep eyes set in his chubby face, but his smile was wide and welcoming. And he looked like a man who dearly enjoyed to laugh. He wore a black overcoat, and a white waistcoat that strained over his wide frame. With long smoky grey breeches, and he had a gold pocketwatch linked across his middle, leading to his pocket.

His wife too, a very pretty woman, a lot more slender than her husband, with coiled light auburn hair, worn in a matrons style, elegantly pinned up with one coil down at the back of her neck. She too, like her husband, had a kind face, warm melting brown eyes and a very agreeable smile. Her hand folded demurely at her front, as she wore a seamlessly rich blue gown, with a muslin undertop linking over her shoulders. Her earrings caught the light, a blue stone, with a gold setting hanging down from her lobes. As she leaned forward, listening intently to what Edith was saying.

Sir Robert’s face lit up all the more as Thomas and Elizabeth approached behind their company. Sir Robert’s grin grew all the wider upon seeing the _man_ who had grown from the _boy_ he knew. Now a handsome Duke of great wealth, power and responsibility, and almost everything he had been taught of how to run a house, and a staff. How to handle the tenants welfare on his land, and how to go about being a man of power and influence, and using those attributes wisely. He clapped his hands into Thomas’s, chuckling away as he greeted the man so warmly, there could be no mistaking the longstanding friendship and affection between them, for anything in the world.

“Thomas. _Upon my word_ , you’ve grown up more alike your father with _each and every_ day passed. _My god, man._ You look very well. _Very well indeed_. How _are you_ sir?”

Thomas smiled so widely and warmly at the man.

“I am _very well_. Robert. Thankyou for your hospitality, here tonight. We shall be sure to repay you. I should wish to invite you and Henrietta for dinner at Chatsworth house just _as soon_ as you are able to name the day.” He smiled kindly.

Elizabeth watched with an ecstatic smile. As she realised, they were the kind, nurturing and encouraging parent figures _that he missed having_. The ones that helped him along after the death of his great father. And after his mother abandoned the country, and her children, never to look back

“Oh, _Thomas_.”

The woman by Sir Robert’s side smiled. As she leaned forwards, to embrace him. pressing an affectionate kiss to his cheek, as he hugged her fervently.

“ _All these_ years away out and about in London, my boy, and still you have not changed _one bit_. _Have you?_ ”

She asked cheerfully. Her hand cupping his creased cheek as he smiled down at her. Mind, he was so ruddy tall, he smiled down at _everyone_ he came aross.

“If he hasn’t changed his ways, Henrietta, I’ll be damned. For I see there is a golden _wedding ring_ upon his finger, and a living goddess _of beauty_ upon his arm. Pray, forgive our rudeness, Lady Kenworthy. Old friends catching up, it rather clouds the sight to others around you.”

“Oh, I heartily agree. The world seems to fade away for a moment.” Elizabeth agreed warmly.

Sir Robert bowed, plucking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Smiling warmly to Thomas. Giving Elizabeth a wink.

“Pray excuse my _lousy_ manners too, Sir Robert, Lady Henry, May I introduce you to my wife. Lady Elizabeth Kenworthy. The Duchess of Chatsworth.”

He smiled down at her, warmly squeezing her hand as it drifted back to her side.

“Your Lady, It is a pleasure, may I wish you joy. We particularly longed to meet you this eve. Thomas wrote of you so warmly, he almost made it sound as if you were _too good_ to be _true_...”

Henrietta spoke warmly, every word soaked in the emotion that made Elizabeth truly feel she wished it with every ounce of her heart.

"He is prone to _exaggerate_..."

Elizabeth smiled. Nudging his side cheekily. 

“Sir Robert, Lady Henry, it is an honour to meet you, _you are too kind._ And, _please_. Call me Elizabeth. I insist. I _can’t bear_ to _lord_ about my married title.” She smiled.

“...And may I say, your house is _charming_. I have never seen a Manor so happily situated in it’s surroundings.”

She offered politely, and she found even talking to them made her smile stretch wide. That was the effect the Compton's could have upon a person. Their joy was infectuous.

“And I, Mi’lady, have _never seen_ a husband so i _n love_ and devoted toward his wife. _I say_ , the crowds up in London must be sore and all the more poorer for missing your _beautiful and lovely_ company.” Sir Robert inisted.

Elizabeth blushed a little. Looking to her feet, Thomas’s eyes stayed warm, and lovingly attatched to gazing at her face. _He loved it when she blushed._

“Well. Indeed. If that is the case, Then I fear London is missing it’s most infuriatingly stubborn mare from its social whirls, according to my stepmother...” She smiled.

Sir Robert laughed a booming laugh to that.

“Pray, Elizabeth, have you been in Derbyshire long” Lady Henrietta asked.

“Not long _at all,_ M’am. We arrived back wedded, just this last week gone.” She smiled gently.

“You are finding it pleasing? And to your taste?” Henrietta enquired kindly.

“ _Very much so,_ M’am. In _every_ manner. The countryside, Chatsworth park, my new family. The staff who kindly wait on us. My adoring husband. I love it all immeasureably.” She smiled back.

“I must say, I am acertain you two shall do _very well_ together, your tempers are much alike. I have never known two people more in tune with one another, nor suited to be man and wife, can _you my love?_ ”

Lady Henrietta flattered to her husband. Elizabeth smiled at that.

“No, _Indeed_." Sir Robert beamed.

“You best be careful Kenworthy’s, every servant may _cheat_ you diligently because of it.” Sir Robert winked.

“I try to line their pockets handsomely enough so such a travesty _never_ hinders me..” Thomas smiled wickedly

“That I don’t believe for _one_ single moment…” Lady Henrietta chided Thomas.

“ _Chance_ would be a fine thing…” Sir Robert peeled into laughter.

“I think, Your Lordship, that Sir and Lady Compton do not believe your words. For they share the very _same_ opinion of you, that I do.”

“Pray tell me of it, My Lady..”

Thomas asked with a note of playfulness frolicking in his eyes.

“That you are about as transparent as a sheet of glass. You don’t line pockets to breed good loyalty. You do it to reward the people who serve you so heartily. You could not bare to see the human beings who share your home, to be afflicted with little wages and overtaxed with labourous work. You are far too much a sympathetic and compassionate lord of the manner to act _otherwise_ …” Elizabeth smiled.

Thomas chuckled, he even looked a little sheepish.

“Watch your back sir, For she has you _pegged_.” Henrietta smiled

“I believe I skimped on a piece of advice to you in your youth, Thomas, my dear boy..” Sir Robert spoke up.

He sighed, smiling as he smiled kindly across to Elizabeth.

“Which is Sir?” Thomas enquired with a smile. 

“In the end, Women make _boys_ of all their _grown husbands_ … For they possess the sharp tongue and ability to render their fine powerful men to _nothing_ more than a disgraced _child_ with _one_ blow of their tongues at fifty paces..” Sir Robert smiled in truth.

Thomas smiled, looking across to his wife. And everyone laughed after Elizabeth spoke.

“He’s _correct_.”

She insisted. Hearing the gaggle of people around her burst into sunny laughter because of her.

“I am _happily_ and humbly _bested_ , My Lady.” Thomas insisted.

It was at this point, he turned and caught the sight of more people slowly moving into the room. And they would not be so rude as to hold up their hostesses welcome chain all night. They had better circulate about the room. Thomas was bound to find some old friends he had not seen in an age. Thomas took his wifes arm.

“We shall let you welcome your other guests. Henrietta, Robert. As Always, a _pleasure_..”

Thomas nodded, moving them both away.

“It was lovely to have met you both.”

Elizabeth smiled before they swept away into the crowds of people.

“And you, Elizabeth…” Henrietta spoke.

She turned to her husband, who smiled down wide at her. Though they thought she and Thomas were out of earshot, they both caught a snippet of what Mr and Mrs Compton said to one another.

“My, he did not underestimate her in his letters. _She is lovely_. A Truly beautiful woman. _Inside_ and _out._ ” Mrs Compton remarked.

“ _Oh, Aye_.”

Her husband spoke back.

“As pretty as she is lovely. And she does well to keep him on his toes too. He deserves a beauty like that on his arm, by his side after the woes of his life, _truly he does_. I am confident she will do her title very proud indeed. Their children will be _such things_ to admire…” Robert smiled with a chuckle.

“Why. If I were but _thirty_ years younger, my dear…” He spoke cheekily.

“ _Oh_ , pray do not finish that sentence, _you beast_!”

Henrietta chided in a shocked tone, before Elizabeth and Thomas both heard them bid a good evening to Lady Bertram.

The Kenworthy’s chuckled silently to themselves.

“In his defence, you do look _very becoming_ in your gown.”

Thomas promises to her as they walk along. The crowds were so thick that they lost sight of Edith and iris for a moment. The room was quite packed, and a little warm. With so much body heat, and the light and heat coming from the candle chandeliers on every wall. Lighting the place in a soft wondrous glow. Elizabeth took a moment to admire the high gold gilded ceilings. The wonderful ornate panels moulded to every wall. Though the house was of English design, she couldn’t help but notice there was a little French flair sprinkled into the interior’s decoration.

“Would you care for a drink, my dear?” Her husband asked.

Elizabeth nooded gratefully. It was a little warm in here, and she was already beginning to feel it with her mouth becoming parched.

“I will fetch you one. Don’t you move.”

He smiled, kissing her forehead before he walked away, swallowed up into the crowds.

Her head was craned so high, she didn’t quite pay attention to where she was headed. And as she admired the amazing baroque gold ceiling, strewn with cherubs and grecian leaves, like a heaven was looking down upon them. Her body was paying decidedly less attention to where it was going, and she stumbled, unfortunately, straight onto some poor gentleman’s toes.

She gasped, her body jumping as she twisted about to apologize profusely to the poor individual whom toes she had just assualted.

“ _Oh, oh_ , do forgive me sir, I am most sorry-“

She exclaimed, until the gentleman in the black velvet coat turned his head. Only seeing the back of it, she must not have recognised the tawny hair curling at the nape of his neck, but when he turned. She immediately found they were in fact, _very well_ acquainted.

“Not _armed_ tonight, Your Ladyship? I am relieved to see no sword within your grasp. Though I think you do _not need it,_ after all.” Reverend Everett smiled.

Her mouth dropped open, she can’t believe she was as careless and clumsy as to keep meeting this man in such horrible ways – on her behalf. As it was he only smiled and looked entertained by her.

“Goodness. Mr Everett. I-.”

She trailed off, her golden glove going across her hand, as they both smiled.

“Do not fret, My Lady. I don’t care much for dancing as it as, It is I who should _thank you_. Now you’ve given me an excuse _not_ to partake in it.”

“Please do not _thank_ me for standing on your toes, Reverend. As it is, I am currently wishing for the ground to open up and swallow me _whole_.”

She spoke in embarassment. She was sure her hot feeling cheeks were now positively, _urgently,_ pink.

“As _bad_ as all that?” Mr Everett asked with a smile.

“Considering that I have met you twice, the first pressing a sword to your throat, and the second to then bash your toes underfoot, I think my mortifaction is _well_ and truly _deserved_.” She insisted.

“One day I wish we shall meet under plain and _simple_ circumstances.” She hoped aloud.

“How lucky it is then, that I am a merciful and lenient man.” He smiles nicely.

She chuckled.

“Are you acquainted with the Compton’s?” She asked.

“I had not been before tonight. But I met Lady Compton, when she came to my small mass on Sunday. And was _most_ _insistent_ that I come tonight, as their new man of the Parish..” He beamed.

“How are you taking to life in Derbyshire? As a fellow newcomer myself, I find I shall be in the same boat as you to this new county.” She smiles.

“I am taking to it enormously well. I am so fortunate as to have a very forgiving and kind Master and Mistress. My home is comfortable, my church is managable. And my parish is small, at present, but it will grow, I am sure. And they are wonderful and no less appreciative in listening to me babble on about our good lord.”

She chuckled. “I am sure you write _excellent_ sermons, Mr Everett..”

“Excellent, but _very short_. My manner growing up was always ascertained. I never wished to be a man of great power and influence. Riding around London in a curricle or a beruche, living in a gleaming townhouse with a fleet of servants. No. I was destined to live in the countryside in a crumbling old cottage, have a pony and trap, keep chickens and write _poorly_ short sermons.” He awarded, making her laugh.

“And do you think to have fulfilled such wishes _adequately?_ ”

She asked daringly, with curiousity in her eyes. Her smile was wide and gently seeking his answer.

“In all but _one measure_. I have not managed, in my travels, to procure some chickens to well and truly _round off_ my list…” He smiles, watching her giggle at that.

“Well. _Sans chickens,_ Sir, I’m sure a lack of kept poultry shall not _hinder_ your preaching one bit. Matter of fact, Next Sunday, I’m sure my husband and I would love to attend your mass.”

“I shall look forward to it. But you know that means I shall have to spent all week _slaving_ over a sermon I deem worthy enough to be read to the Duke and Duchess of Chatsworth.”

He smiled, his brows tipping a way up his forehead.

Elizabeth gave him a humbled smile.

“Well. You are too kind, Reverend. And in that case we shall definitely be in attendence. We shouldn’t dream of letting such an excellently – _short_ – sermon go to waste.” She teased.

“A true paragon of christian virtue, my lady.” He teased back, giving her a reproaching look coupled with his handsome smile.

It was then that Thomas returned to her side, and handed her a small glass of champagne. The taupe coloured drink fizzing and bubbling as it sat in the crystal glass. Elizabeth thanked him and took it, and Thomas smiled warmly at their Reverend.

“Hugh. It’s _marvellous_ to see you. I’d _no idea_ you’d be in attendence tonight… a pleasant surprise indeed…”

Thomas smiled warmly, holding out his hand, which Mr Everett shook with fervour, returning the generous smile.

“Alas, Sir. Nor did I expect to be in attendence, I was just saying to your wife, that were it not for the fact I met Lady Compton when she came to my mass service, then I would not have known of such a gathering, let alone be invited to it. But as it was, she is a very _insistant,_ woman. And I soon found my decision swayed…” He smiled.

“ _Insistant?”_

Thomas asked in humour, raising a dark brow. His smile was sly.

“No need to beat about the bush, Reverend, Henrietta _is, and always_ has been, a _martinet._ A Taskmaster to rival no other. She got both her young daughters married off, _to Lords no less_ , both within a year of each other.” Thomas told him.

“Merciliess.” Hugh smiled, astounded, with a chuckle.

“Well. She was, certainly _determined_ in getting me here, I grant her that.” Everett Smiled.

“Come off it man, she’s a _dragon of a disciplinarian_.” Thomas pressed.

Hugh chuckled.

“I take it you’ve been acquainted with her a _long while?_ From that statement…?” He asked.

“I have known the Compton’s since I was a boy myself, Sir Robert was close friends with my father. And after his death, he taught me everything of how to manage the many tasks that fall under inheriting a Dukedom.” Thomas smiled.

“He and Henrietta were _more_ than generous to me and Iris. I cannot think how I can _ever_ repay him for his kindness to us. We were practically orphaned...” He explained.

“I’d no idea. If I may ask, Where was your Mother, Sir, surely she would have helped you through it all, did she not?”

Hugh asked with intrigue

“England was too _dull_ and dry for my mother. No sooner than my father was cold in his grave, was she off on the first ferry across the channel to France to begin her new life as a Dowager Countess. I haven’t seen nor heard from her in ten years, atleast. Caroline Kenworthy was never a woman to be pinned down” Thomas explained.

“I See.”

Hugh spoke with empathy.

“ _Well_. It is my opinion Sir, if she could see how you’ve managed to take care of your family, run your home to the best of your excellent abilities, have a staff who adore you, a wonderful home, and managed to find yourself the prettiest wife in all of Derbyshire. I’ve no reason to surmise she would not be the _proudest_ mother In all the world could she see you now.” Hugh offered.

Thomas smiled. And Elizabeth folded her golden silk clad fingers through his own as he stood by her side. A little, simple move that told him she heartily agreed with the good Reverend. His brushed back, holding her hand. Gratefully feeling the ice cold of the wedding rings atop her glove. He had a fleeting flicker of pride at realising he was the luckiest man to have placed them there.

“You are _too_ kind.” Thomas smiled.

“A damn fine characteristic for a Clergyman, I daresay.” Hugh japed.

Thomas and Elizabeth laughed.

It was then the crowds shifted, and Edith and Iris made themselves known to the three of them. Laughing to each other as they walked to rejoin their party. Elizabeth watched as Iris’s face was visibly affected by the sight of the Reverend stood opposite her brother and sister.

She seemed to startle, her expression not _quite_ knowing where to rest, somewhere between admiration and impromptu shock. Before her lips stretched into a smile, she realised she had not said anything for a long few seconds. She was just staring unashamedly at the Reverend, her cheeks growing pinker all the while she did. But, this did not seem to bother Hugh, for he was smiling across at her in a way that looked like he thought she was the only woman he had ever considered worth looking at. His eyes softened lovingly from the playful way he had engaged the Duke and Duchess in coversation, and his smile slowly grew and grew at Iris. Making her knees wobble a little, and her body feel suspicously jelly like. She fidgeted nervously with her hands as she tried to find her voice.

Hugh had never seen a sight as radiant nor lovely as her. The soft glow of her gown made her rouged cheeks look heavenly in contrast to her pale skin. Her silver eyes shone like a lazy bolt of lightning, and she looked divine this eve. Her lovely, he imagines thick, dark hair arranged to twine away from her face, showing off the beautiful heart shaped structure of it. And the gown she wore, was the most flattering thing he’d ever seen. It showed off the wonderful elegant lines of her body. But it was her eyes he couldn’t look away from. Not even for a second. He was caught by them, and her breathtaking beauty that had trapped him so wholly.

Elizabeth turned and caught Edith’s smug little grin which she wasn’t trying hard to conceal as she looked down at her folded hands down at the front of her skirts. Elizabeth raised a cheeky auburn brow at her niece. Her smile was not concealed at all. It was wide and thoroughly sly.

“ _GG-Good_ evening. Reverend Everett.”

Iris stammered when she eventaully found her vocal chords once again. her hands fisting nervously in her silk skirts. Her eyes getting lost in his. And though it was pleasantly warm in here, her skin began to prickle uncomfortably a couple of degrees hotter. Her stomach was sizzling and flipping all at the same time. And dammit, she didn’t half wonder if she left her sensible head in the carriage when they arrived. Or failing that, she had a feeling it was now gallivanting off about the south pacific somewhere, and her heart, the funny, rampant bounding thing, was relocated somewhere near her ears.

“Good Evening, Lady Iris.”

Hugh smiled in a smooth, soft purr. Still looking mesmerised by her appearance.

Thomas frowned lightly in confusion across at his sister. _Had she suffered a blow on the head? To become this strict lipped simpleton before them? Was she delirious? Iris never behaved in such a way…_

Hugh crossed, and took her snowy white hand, looking deep into her eyes with a smile that made her shudder and gulp, before he leaned down and pressed a long, lingering kiss to her hand. Smoothing his thumb across the back of her hand after he did. As if rolling the kiss _deeper_ onto her skin.

“You look perfectly _lovely_ , this evening, My Lady…” He smiled in an easy compliment.

Edith and Elizabeth were trying their level best not to smile like loons.

Hugh seemed to snap out of his admiring stupour, and switched his eyes across to Edith.

“Miss Thatcher Kenworthy. You look very charming too. Though I believe the compliment to be a _little_ tedious, I wager you have inherited your mother’s fine beauty in spades.” He smiled.

Edith smiled wide at him.

“Thankyou Reverend. I am most sincerely obliged. And as my mother seems to have forgotten what _words_ are, I thank you on _her behalf_ too.” Edith smiled cheekily.

Iris looked wryly at her daughter, with narrowed eyes as she tried to summon the energy to look cross.

 _“So help me, I don’t care if you’re my first born. Say that again and I’ll give you away to an orphanage quicker than you can comprehend..”_ Iris threatened between gritted teeth.

Hughs eyes twinkled warmly at the two of them. Iris’s pallour snapped back into a grin after she finished seething a sentence at her daughter.

Edith did not look the least bit apologetic whatsoever.

Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from peeling into great long bouts of laughter, and a face splitting grin.

Thomas was still frowning in bewilderment. _What the devil was going on here?_

Elizabeth turned and caught her husbands perplexed face. Dark brows furrowed down, his mouth as straight as a yardstick. She patronisingly patted his hand which her arm was looped through his own. His face seemed to be stuck on emitting a expression of _‘I-don’t-quite-know-what’s-going-on-here-help-me’._ To which Elizabeth smiled, the most powerful and influencial man in the county, and he couldn’t tell when two persons were developing a _téndre_ for one another. Not even when one of those persons was his own sister. It sailed right over his head.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older…

” Elizabeth mocked as she beamed across at him. Seeing his face turned stroppy and indignant at that.

“May I also thank you, My lady...” Hugh began.

“ _Whatever_ for?”

Iris asked a little les nervously now. But she fancied she could fry an egg on her hot pink cheeks .

“For yours, and your daughters kindly watching after my troublesome hounds the other day. I am _most thankful_ for your aid.” He smiles.

“They were _no bother_ , Sir. They are lovely animals. We should adore to see them again soon. And I feel inclined to add, they kept my youngest most amused, also. Which is certainly a _grand_ achievement in itself.”

She smiled, still nervously fidgeting with her hands.

“I actually have something which I meant to inform you of, all of you, actually…” She spoke, adressing the entirety of the Kenworthy party before him.

“My sister, Margaret, comes up to join me from Hampshire next week, She has taken a small cottage just outside of Castleton, I thought I might ask for the privelage of introducing her to you all. She would be new to the area, just as I am, and I should very much her like to meet you all. You have, _all,_ been so kind as to settle me in most thoughtfully. And I am sure she would adore to be introduced to you.” He smiled.

Iris promised herself she would try not to, but she couldn’t help it. She got lost in the undefinable colour of his eyes as they swept across to her again.

“We should be _delighted_.” She promised.

“ _Wonderful_.” Hugh hushed softly

Elizabeth smiled at the both of them, before she hear the tempo of the music pouring over the room from the musicians corner, change into a faster beat. The waltz to be precise. She smiled a most lethally cunning smile to herself. She was a married lady now, it was about time she took part trying her hand in some _gentle_ urging of matchmaking between the painfully obvious affection her sister in law beared for the dashing Reverend.

“I say, Iris…”

Elizabeth spoke, clearing her throat, smiling gently to her sister in law.

“Are you promised to any gentleman for this dance?”

She asked, her blue eyes shining wickedly like freshly polished coins.

Iris’s mouth hung open, before she wet her lips, and answered nervously.

“N-no. I am not enaged to dance with anyone.” She smiled nervously.

Hugh stepped forwards, catching her silken white hand in his gentle grip.

 _“You are now,_ My Lady. I’d only be too happy to oblige you…”

He grinned. His eyes hot and shining at her. It was the waltz. Iris noted. They’d be chest to chest, his hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder, close enough to feel one anothers breath on their cheeks, _and, oh, goodness,_ she thinks.

Iris’s mouth gaped open like a wordless and braindead guppy fish at feeding time.

“Though I shall try _my best_ to dance skilfully, even after my toes have been throughly _put to the test_ this eve...”

Hugh leered wickedly at Elizabeth. Levelling her a hard stare at being a married woman come matchmaker. But, as long as it offered him a few moments alone, pressed close to the most _beautiful_ woman in the room, he really could not find the energy with which to summon his anger.

The Duchess offered nothing back, but a beautiful and innocent Doe-like smile at him.

Hugh took her hand, and led her away from their group, tucking her arm in the crook of his elbow, leading her to the dancefloor that was beginning to clear in the middle of the room.

Everyone watched them go, Iris breaking into her sunny sounding laughter as Hugh leaned and told her something that caused the humour to bubble up out of her. Truly, they looked _most fetching_ together. And Iris was moony eyed for the man, as he was for her, judging by the way he rarely took his eyes off her when she was around.

“ _Well_ …”

Edith smiled after her mother sidled away.

“Dare I say, I’ve never seen my mother rendered so _speechless_ …” She added merrily.

Elizabeth grinned.

“I think they are starting to like each other _very much_ , what do you think Thomas?”

Elizabeth turned to her husband. Asking him about his thoughts on the matter.

They.. _like… each other?_ ” He asks incredulously.

Elizabeth shook her head, scoffing a ' _tsk'_ sound as she turned to Edith.

“As clueless about love as a brick wall. Isn’t he Edith?” She asked.

Edith smiled at her uncle.

“It’s amazing enough that he managed to recognize the emotion enough to fall in love with, and wed you, dear Aunt.” Edith grinned sweetly, her hands now behind her back.

Thomas frowned at her.

“ _Shush you._ Or I’ll confiscate your books. Then you’ll be forced to socialise with the society like the rest of us…” Thomas threatened.

“You wouldn’t.” Edith bit back dryly.

“Would to.”

“Would not.”

“You would not _dare_ try.”

“ _Oh,_ I _would._ ”

“…not.”

“Most _certainly would_.”

“On pain of _death_ would you separate me from my books…” Edith glared.

“ _So be it_.” Thomas growled.

“Children.” Elizabeth interjected calmly.

Thomas levelled a teasing, but gentle and kind stare down at his eldest. His jaw stiff as he tried to glare at her. Luckily a little polite voice interjected on Thomas and Edith’s squabbling before any violence occurred between the pair.

“Excuse me, Sir Thomas…” Came a soft little coo from beside them all.

Their heads twisted to see a mature matron stood to their right. Her hair was pulled into a fancy arrangement, with a singular ringlet leading down her neck. She had a very pleasing beauty that hinted she had been a diamond of the first water in her youth. She had prettily arched brows, a wide mouth which smiled fantastically, and her eyes were almond shaped, and prettily slanted, a deep and enriching brown, like melted chocolate. She had an extraordinary quality of elegance to her posture, which made her all the more beautiful. But her side there was a dark haired girl, presumably her daughter, who looked a little sullen, and could not have been more than three and twenty, her face still flushed with the blessings of taut, unblemished youthful skin - unlike her mother, whose face showed her age with the gentle slope of aged lines but even that did not hinder in her beauty – and her hair was a richer, deeper dark shade of brown than the light mousy shade of her mothers. Her eyes were also dark, and her face overall was very pleasing, with full lips and a very elegant bone structure, again mirroring her mother. But the girls face was indignant. She almost looked incensed at something as she looked across to Elizabeth. Who noted her eyes softened a little at Thomas, but not her. At her, they hardened like _ice_.

“Goodness, Lady Hastings. _My word_ , it _is excellent_ to see you. Are you, and your husband well, and your daughters?.” Thomas grinned widely. Obviously they were old acquaintances.

Lady Hastings smiled at his always extraordinary kindness.

“We are very well. Thankyou. We thought we’d come and wish you congratulations on your recent nuptuals…”

She smiled nicely, and a blind man could not have failed to notice how she nudged her daughter in the ribs, forcing her to look a little more pleasing, rather than scowling.

“Didn’t we Anabelle?” Lady Hastings coerced.

“Anabelle.” Thomas grinned lovingly. Stepping forwards and kissing her hand fondly.

“How could I forget?”

She almost wants to scream in fustration at that.

Had he remembered her, then _she_ would be the one _by his side_ , as Duchess. Wearing the _two huge rings_ she saw sat perched on the hand of the _wrong woman. She didn’t deserve him_. She could never endeavour to deserve him. _He belonged with her_. _And everyone knew it._

"The years have been kind to you, indeed. You look _very_ lovely this evening.” Thomas smiled to her.

Anabelle couldn’t help it, she softened to his touch. Smiling stupidly up at him.

“It is a pleasure to see you once more, Thomas.”

She smiled, looking deep into his eyes in a manner that was almost attempting affection.

“We used to play together as children, through Chatsworth wood’s in the Summer. Do you remember?” He enquired.

“ _Indeed I do_ , Sir. I _never forgot_ the time _we_ spent together.” She smiles nicely to him.

“We were talking about as such tonight, just before you arrived with your family, and your _wife._ ”

Anabelle spat, her eyes narrowing into hard, stone cold slits at Elizabeth. Who met her back with a shocked blue eyed gaze.

She spoke with _such disdain_ towards her. And where it had come from with such ferocity she had _absolutely no clue_.

Elizabeth shrunk back a little, her smile dropping, not knowing what she did to receive such scathing hatred from the girl. And she didn’t much like the way she spat _‘wife’_ as if it were the most apalling insult she could concoct towards her.

“Lady Hastings, Anabelle, may I formally introduce you to my wife, Lady Elizabeth Kenworthy.The Duchess of Chatsworth…”

Lady Hastings and Anabelle nodded to the woman.

“It is lovely to meet you, Lady Hastings. And you too Anabelle. It is so enlightening to meet so many people who knew my husband as a young boy…”

She smiled stroking a hand down Thomas’s arm. Trying to meet Anabelle’s eyes. But for all the world. No hint of kindess or civility was thrown her way. Those cold brown eyes of Miss Hastings _glared_ back at her, burning into her with loathing, when all she did was try and be kind to the girl. Not knowing where her _fervent hatred_ was coming from.

“You remember my niece I trust?” Thomas asked. “Edith Thatcher Kenworthy.” Thomas introduced.

“Of course. Edith, it is a pleasure. You were but only _a toddler_ when we had the pleasure of seeing you last.” Lady Hastings smiled.

Edith smiled.

“Lady Hastings, Anabelle. It is nice to see you again.” She smiled kindly. Though she did not know why Anabelle was looking so horribly towards her aunt.

“And where is your Sister Thomas? For we saw she was with you, also.” Lady Hastings smiled gently.

“My mother is dancing. But I shall be so good as to convey to her your well wishes.” Edith promised lovingly.

Edith’s words were nearly cut off as Anabelle barked something to Elizabeth. The tone and delivery of it so sudden, that she almost jumped.

“Are you enjoying Derbyshire? Elizabeth? Or is it too _simple and traditional_ for your _high class_ London tastes. Can we aspire to match up the _glory_ of the _ton?_ Or in _your eyes_ are we all country bumpkins not worth even _one_ glance of your titled eyes? _"_

Anabelle asked cruelly, her tone mocking, and dripping revulsion.

Elizabeth blinked. Somewhat taken aback.

“ _Anabelle._ ”

Lady Hastings snapped briskly to her daughter fo rher rudeness. Who did not take her eyes off the Duchess for even a second.

Thomas was unsettled to see such _loathing_ painted all over the face of the kind sweet girl he used to know.

Edith too was a little wide eyed at such blatant discourtesy. Especially as Elizabeth had scarce said two words to the woman. And yet she looked at her as if she were an _arch enemy_ in need of slaughter.

“I am enjoying Derbyshire very much, Anabelle. The mistake you are claiming is to think that I enjoyed the social savagery of London. Which I _did not_. I always and _always have_ , preffered the country. The Living, and mannerisms. I find that the manners here are _far_ more pleasing and palatable than London. _Most of the time, anyway.._.”

She added, her comment a little barbed as she met the glare head on. Anabelle could see that she was no demure doe. She was horrible. She was an awful, loathsome woman. And whatsmore, she had everything Anabelle had ever dreamt of. _And she didn’t even deserve it. She wasn’t even worthy of looking at him, let alone being married to him._

Anabelle’s eyes flickered with something, before she tore herself away, snatching up her skirts and running away through the crowds. Shoving people out of her way. Her face sour and resolute.

“I am mortified. I cannot apologzie enough. Your Ladyship, Anabelle, has, not been…. _herself_ , as of late. I do aplogize…I do not know where her rage comes from… I-”

Lady Hastings offered. Paling. Obviously horrified at her daughter who had just embarrassed someone of great rank, power and wealth. 

“It is alright.”

Elizabeth smiled generously. Nodding. 

“If you’ll excuse me. It was _a pleasure_ to see you all again…”

She murmured, her face pulled into an embarassed frown as she stalked away, after her sullen daughter.

“What was wrong with her?”

Edith gaped in shock after they were away out of earshot. He rmouth hung so wide open, something could have _nested_ in there.

Thomas frowned, shaking his head. He too was lost for words.

“Are you alright, My love? I must confess. Anabelle was such a sweet girl when we were growing up. I don’t know what caused such vulgarity on her part tonight…” He admitted.

Elizabeth did not meet his eyes as he twisted to look at her. She was busy watching across the ballroom as Anabelle tore out of the french doors and onto the terrace. Still looking hostile and brooding. Lady Hastings followed her not long after, and the pair exchanged several long heated words by the looks of things, to her eyes.

It seems, everyone in Derbyshire would not welcome her _so generously_.

 _Some of them_ , she thinks as she looked to Anebelle hastings, who glared at her even from all the way across the ballroom, _would very much like to see her thrown under a moving carriage._

And it didn’t settle well with her _. Not one bit_.

 

~


	59. Tantricity, Love and Just Us Two...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is solely for L_TH_R who voiced their curiosity to see what I meant in chapter 60 when I mentioned Thomas and Elizabeth had a 'tantric night' in their bedchamber. Well. Here it is, all spelled out in black and white for you L_TH_R. Enjoy x 
> 
> Love from the Punk
> 
> x

 

 

 

 

 

After a long night of dancing, conversing, and general splendour of meeting numerous men and women, influential landowners, and landed country gentry, It didn’t take much to persuade Thomas to peel himself away from being ensconced in the crowds at Sir Robert and lady Henrietta Compton’s ball.

Elizabeth smiled, hating to part Hugh and Iris. Whom had taken no more than four dances together. And Edith respectfully ended the night, _not reading,_ as perhaps she _had_ hoped, but conversing with some young boys and girls near her age, whom, she remarked, were astoundingly _tolerable_ company.

Thomas came away with little fuss. It had been a _long_ day after a taxing night, after all, for him and his Duchess, so it was really no hardship to pile everyone back into the Kenworthy carriage, and ride along home. The hour wasn’t insultingly late, nor was it rudely early, they all needed some sleep. The carriage a quiet hush as they travelled back. The only sound the horses hooves, and the rainstorm which had been brewing all night, now pelting the roof. Edith slumping onto her mother’s shoulder, and Elizabeth doing the same to Thomas. Though she was tired, a couple of things were circling in her head, and refusing to settle. Like, for one, the growing attraction she saw blossoming between Iris and Hugh. And for second, the more than arctic greeting she received from an old friend of her husband’s tonight. Elizabeth tended to remain quieter than perhaps she ought, and she would _stew_ over things, and let them bask for a long while in her head. And it made her a little prickled and saddened to feel that someone did not like her. And worse still, for no conceivable reason at that too. She had never even met Miss Anabelle Hastings before tonight, and the venom in her tone, with the poison in her eyes made Elizabeth horrified to know there was someone going about in the world, who _thought ill_ of _her._

This looped in her head all the while they pulled up to Chatsworth, ascended the stairs, and dragged their weary bodies to each of their separate bedchambers. Bidding a sleepy Iris and a weary Edith a goodnight. Thomas happily sighed when he saw their freshly made bed, with the roaring fire having been laid, and the candles by the bed having been lit, and the curtains drawn for their return. Wilkin’s had even been so kind, as to leave a decanter of red wine atop Thomas’s dresser, and a single thorn less white rose. His butler’s way of telling him to enjoy his honeymoon, and that he worked too much, with things he needn’t concern himself with. He suddenly had a sneaky image of his staff acting like cunning cupid’s to help throw him and his wife together, because they all agreed he deserved to enjoy the weeks immediately after his marriage, and instead he had thrown himself into his work, it rather warmed his heart that. To have people so devoted to sneakily trying to keep him happy.

He sat on it with a heavy, contented sigh, tugging off his boots, unlinking his restrictive cravat, and putting away the silver cufflinks that once belonged to his father. Elizabeth smiled as he merrily flopped flat back onto the mattress. As she crossed to his vanity table that she had now claimed as her own. It was strewn with her jewellery, tangled up, with her earrings, her perfumes, and the lavish cosmetics René had spoiled her with. She crossed around the end of the bed, Thomas, though his eyes were closed, could hear the enticing _whisping, and swishing_ sound of her skirts against her body as she moved, that and the rain pelting against the bedroom windows was all he could hear.

A _most pleasing_ chorus of sounds, indeed, to him.

He peeked one eye open to watch her, the firelight gleaming off her skin at her nape as she put her back to him, bowing her head as she took her earrings out, and carefully slid off her wedding rings, to take off her gloves. He smiled like a possessive loon as he watched her slide both rings on again quickly. It always thrilled him to know there was a part of his branding on her. Marking her a married lady. His married lady. He was _intoxicated_ by this woman. And it never failed to floor him. He could watch her for a hobby, if that wasn’t considered a _little_ odd and _overwhelming_. But he watches her take out _every single_ individual golden hairpin, and slowly the cascade of fire red curls once again drapes down her pale back. Still clad in the amazingly beautiful champagne coloured silk dress, she turns, hitching up her skirts. Smiling as she saw the vision of her husband on the bed behind her. He looked too _criminally_ stunning to be counted fair.

He had sat back, far against the headboard, with his shirt undone halfway down his chest, his feet bare, and his braces looped down by his thighs. His cravat and waistcoat lay discarded in a tangled muss at his feet. And as he had become so intent on watching her, he pressed his back into the pillows behind him, and had snatched himself a small glass of red wine, which now sat cradled in his hand, and he sipped it, watching over her like she was some sort of show at the theatre.

But he did as such with so much _love_ piercing those daggering eyes of his. She liked how her once pressed, and immaculately dressed man, now looked like a rumpled _scoundrel_.

His inky hair, once pushed back and tamed, now ran free, reaching down to sway in front of his eyes. She smiled, edging her body across the bed to get closer to him. She declined the wine he offered her, smiling sweetly across as he, with his free hand, stroked down her neck, brushing the tresses of her coiled red hair out of the way, revealing the alabaster of her porcelain looking skin. Before he tilted his head. Usually she would curl up into him and rejoice in the silence and intimacy they shared together. But as it was, her mind whirring with thought was near  _palpable_ – _to him anyway_ – he knew his wife _far too well_ to know when she was overtaxing her mind with a certain thought.

“ _What_ is it, my love?”

He asks. Recognising that tell tale look of thoughtfulness lingering in her eyes.

Elizabeth turned to him, blinking for a moment, her fingers plucking idly at a stitched flower on her dress, eyes downcast, before she summoned her words. Bringing her eyes back up to his.

“I-  _I cannot_ put aside the, the _way_ Miss Hastings _spoke to me_ tonight. I don’t know. She just seemed so, _venomous_ , towards me. I cannot help but wonder if I had done _something to wrong her_ , she seemed so very… _angry_ at me. And if there's one thing I cannot _bare_. It is the thought that someone alive and well in this world thinks _ill of me_ …” She explained.

Thomas turned to stand his wine down, inviting her to curl up further into his arms with him. Holding her close. Hearing her skirts rustle and swish once more as she moved, coming to rest her head on his chest, her palm pressed flat to his warm skinned shoulder that the gaping shirt bared.

“I must myself admit I too was _shocked_ by her, by her anger and her, _rage_ , towards you. All I can think is that, she didn’t _know_ I had married. Or, she was angry at _me_ for loosing touch with her, and thought to alleviate the pain of such on you. We really were _very close_ as children. She could have been considered my best acquaintance for a time. Our families really were _very_ close at one time. But then I was sent away to school in Oxford, and she across the country to her Uncle in Kent. We were worlds apart. And then, when my father died, and my mother left, I had little time to pay my social calendar any form of mind. I was more focused on not letting Chatsworth get _run into the ground_. I fear I rather _neglected_ the society up here. Especially as it was now my duty, and _my longing_ , to secure a wife, and produce an heir. And… _slowly,_ I suppose, with myself in London every season for summer, and here working every winter, her friendship just....  _faded_ , from my attention.”

He explained softly, all the while, stroking a hand to comb through her hair. Where she led against him, she could feel his voice rumble through his ribcage, and his heart beat gently thud against her ear.

Elizabeth nodded.

“I believe she missed you a _great deal_. What girl who enjoyed your company for a time couldn’t?”

Elizabeth asked. He smiled, leaning down to drop a kiss to her nose at that.

“You’re very kind…” He purred.

She smiled.

“Maybe I should try to make amends to her? We could, invite her to dinner here or something? And her family too. Her mother seemed a most pleasant woman…” She asked.

Thomas chuckled genially at her. Smoothing a hand back from her forehead, pressing a long kiss there after he did. She was so virtuous. It made his heart sing. If there was any slight way she could right any wrongs in her life. If they were within her grasp, then by the sheer determination and power vested in her own hands,  _she’d do it._ He admired that about her. She _was so good._ And it didn’t just go skin deep, it ran rampant and profoundly through her.

“If you should like…” He offers. “I’m sure Ethel would _grouse and groan_ at the prospect of a dinner party here. But If I know the woman at all, secretly, she’d be _thrilled…”_

Thomas smiled. Ethel Elmstone, their mouthy cook, appeared, on first impression, as a no nonsense, non wasting, blunt kind of lady. But underneath her cap and cooking apron, she was as sweet as a sack of sugar. Elizabeth could imagine approaching her, with mind to throw an elegant dinner, and she would groan, and fuss, roll her eyes, and say that she didn’t have enough hours in the day, nor hands to do all her tasks. But the second Elizabeth turned her back, she’d rub her hands together gleefully, and set about excitedly preparing a dinner of such excellency that would be fit to serve the very King and Queen themselves.

“Anyway. I’m very fatigued. I think I should take this lovely dress off.”

She smiles, looking down at it. Smoothing an appreciative hand down her front.

“Though I don’t want too. It is _so beautiful_.”

She admired it, down casting her eyes to it with a thankful smile on her lips.

Thomas smiled up at her. Though he was drained too. Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so weighted down with his tiredness. He felt himself stirring to want to make _ardent, toe curling, mind melting, love_ to his wife.

“That, my dear, has nothing to do with the dress. It is _all down_ to the woman inside it…” He offers sweetly.

She beams at that. She beams her perfectly radiant smile that he wanted to frame as a work of art. She places one hand on his cheekbone, leaning in to seal a perfectly lippy, and long slow smooch onto his lips. And if that didn’t seal the deal on his rapidly swelling _ardour_ , nothing else would.

She then moved to stand the bed, her figure halo-ed behind from the beauty of the candlelight. And still he surveyed her with those eyes like blue sponges, drinking everything in.

“Will you do me a favour tonight? My darling?” He asks her, looking at her with bare, naked love in his eyes.

He watched as she tugged her skirts with her as she came to stand. Looking across at him.

“What would that be?”

She asked perfectly innocently, with those big, long lashed, blinking blue eyes of hers. That he secretly hoped their baby would inherit, when and if they conceived one anytime soon. Her pale hands reaching about her neck, to unlink the jewelled necklace that sat there. The fat jewels glistened in the sparse light of their room.

He crawls across the bed, moving his graceful body to slide his legs either side of her own. Pressing himself up to come to a stand in front of her. Tucking their bodies close together, allowing her to feel the heat, and intimacy of when he looked at her in this _secret_ way of his. The way that made his eyes burn bright. And his face was intently serious as he set about inducing the same lust that now swallowed him up. He wanted to pleasure her, to sink into her and love her like no other man ever could. And she started to feel it. The powerful sweeping hot force of lust that fired through her blood, arousing her to know that passion itself was the thing that now uncoiled low in her gut. As he held her in his arms, she knew this man before he was everything she could have wanted. And the love they were about to share, would be tantric and mind blowing.

“Give it _no more thought_ tonight. Elizabeth. Because I want to concentrate solely on _seducing_ and _loving_ my wife..”

He whispers hotly. Blood and lust dancing through his veins. Hot, unhindered and wanting for her.

He reached around her petite waist, and his hands slid down her back, quickly finding where the ribbon fastened about her waist was done up. He carefully plucked it free, letting it coil loose, and spiral away to her feet. Forgotten. All the while she didn’t take her eyes off his. Her mouth gaping lightly, still overwhelmed at how alluring he could make her feel with the heated look in his eyes alone. Finding a private place to get lost in them as she looks across at him. Her body wracking with those pleasurable shivers, and anticipation of what was to come.

She only breaks eye contact as he comes to circle her. She can feel the heat of him, of his nearness, burning onto her skin. And the sheer, eye fluttering pleasure, of his breath hitting the back of her neck, arching all the way to the side as he presses slow, tender and careful kisses down her scented pale neck. A slow groan, bred with a breathy moan slides out of her lips in the bliss he causes. Her eyes sliding shut at the heady sensations that gallop through her body. It was such a well learned spot for him to go to, now. Loving how it plucked her apart. It made her knees shiver, and she would bite her lip to try and stop the lustful little whimpers that rolled out of her mouth. His massive hands weren’t idle things, they found the corseted laces, and slowly heaved the ribbons from their holes. Unshackling her from the prison of her beautiful garment. Breaking away every once in a while, from kissing her, to look and drink her in. His eyes skimming over every dip of her spine, every dark mole on her back that he adored. Nestling into her creamy coloured skin.

Soon, she feels the dress grow slack from behind her. The two sides curved wide apart, and he very slowly sheds her out of it. Pushing it softly down over her hips. His hands started by cupping either side of her waist, then skimming down over the slender slope of her waist, flaring out where he skimmed down to meet her hips, guiding down her smooth thighs, taking the dress with his hands all the while as he went.

She looks down, to her side to see the dress had now, indeed, pooled at her knees. The numerous layers of skirts meaning it was by no means a slight slip of a garment.

She bites her lips as his come back to refocus on her pale, tender neck, making her shiver all the more as he layered more kisses onto the side of her throat. She felt his head tilt forwards, pressing the front his body closer into her body, evidence of his _hard desire_ strained hard into her back. And she felt him throb all the more as she, _unable_ not to stop herself touching him, her hand found his head, and slid the curl through the long, silky strands of his hair. Begging him for more. More of anything. More touch, more kisses to her throat, _anything_ he’d give, she’d _receive. And gladly so._

His hands now had another obstacle to contend with, before he could fully get her naked. And this was the pale golden corset that she had been wearing under that dress. It was as gorgeous as the dress itself. A prettily arched garment, whale boned and fitted to her body, pressing her glorious breasts up high, which swelled with each ragged breath because of the lust he was slowly teasing into her. The thing looked like it suffocated her, cutting into her back, her shoulderblades spilling out over it. and he couldn’t have that. His hands, working more quickly now, ripped away the ribbons which held it onto her. Biting his lip in a wanton sigh as he felt it come loose, and was able to then pull it away, off her, leaving her top half perfectly naked. Which was _everything_ he wanted, _and more._

He savoured the feel of her silken skin, crushing her close to him, his head bowing further over her shoulder as his lips grew hotter and wilder, plucking more ravenous kisses into her neck. His body straining into her urgently now. So urgently that when he does, he is ashamed to feel he was almost rutting is hips into her, and moaning at how good it felt pressing against the soft swell of her ass.

 _Nothing_ but _lust_ existed in his mind now. And his only goal was to sate said lust. His hands came up to press to her breasts as he licked and nipped down her neck, adoring the feel of her desire puckered arching into his massive hands, seeking his touch. Hearing her gasp and moan in front of him all the more potently. She was stemming her arousal too. He could tell. Her magnificent rounded thighs she was squeezing tighter together still in her short bloomers and stockings, trying to alleviate the dripping lust that he was assured to now find slicked to her thighs. And he couldn’t leave her wanting when as it was, every drop of her delicious wetness belonged being _lapped away_ by _his tongue._

He guides her body forwards, twisting her around, and gently taking her face into his hands. Unleashing on her a glorious kiss and a savage moan, as he links her close, his hands cupping either side of her neck. His lips madly plucking and passionately invading her own in a kiss that causes stars to flutter across her head, and fireworks to rocket through every one of her limbs. His chest pounded against her own, his heart stomping away in his chest. And his brain and groin demanding to be sated. He carries on kissing her, almost painfully needy, as he slowly whisks off her remaining clothes, shedding her undergarments, and peeling each stocking to pool at her ankles. Stepping her out of them as he pushes her further back, her knees clipping the edge of the bed,

“Get on _that bed.._ ”

He orders. His eyes clouded with dark lust. As she is prostrate, perfectly naked, spread out below him on the dark red quilts. He stays stood, a god like spectacle, as he heaves his shirt over his head and inches his breeches to join the useless graveyard of clothes, now littering their bedroom carpets. Elizabeth pants, swallowing as she sits up, her arousal leaking all the more down her thighs. Seeing the blood flushed, straining, and urgent state of his huge arousal. Her eyes meet his, and he doesn’t comprehend what she is doing.

That is, until he feels a small, warm, wet tongue _lap at him_. Curling under his manhood, the exact way he laps between her thighs. He groans, loud, as she then leant forwards, and sucked him deep past her lips into her mouth. He groaned as he hit the back of her throat, bracing his hand on the poster of the bed that was closest to him for support. _Heaven and earth,_ what she was doing felt nothing short of _heavenly._ And his other hand cannot help but tangle into her long red hair as she repeats the motion, hollowing her cheeks, toying with him, teasing him with the chasm of her perfect mouth, that he had no idea could feel so talented, wrapped around his length. Driving him mad as he could her. He bucks and gasps as the erotic sensation of her only gets all that much better. His thighs were shaking now, and if he was truly going to please her, he would have to, _begrudgingly,_ stop her before he reached his completion in a way that would be insulting to her pleasure. He gently guided her head away, looking down at her In a look half bred with disbelief and pleasant admiration at her. She smiled wickedly up at him. Looking like a true siren, her long curls of red hair pulled forwards over one shoulder.

He gasped through his choked words.

“Where _on earth_ , did _you learn_ , _that?”_

He asks her in a breathy tone. Because he _certainly_ didn’t teach her.

She blinks up at him.

“Did you _not like it?_ ”

She asks worriedly. Her brows coming down to pull into a frown.

He glared down at her, the most seductive look she had _ever_ _seen_ him give her. That told her he enjoyed it _more than amply enough._

His eyes grew so dark, they almost didn’t look blue anymore. They looked as _black_ as spades as he gazed down at her. Still bracing himself up with the bed post, in order just to stand. _Heck_ , after that, his knees were _trembling_. And he had never been so ready to make love to his wife.

He chuckled, darkly at her.

“ _Oh, that’s it.”_

He promises in a purring drawl. His eyes now fully black.

She yelps, too disracted by his eyes, to notice that his hand grabbed her ankle, and launched her across the bed, to come closer to him, sliding her torso to the edge of the bed. Bracing her thighs in his massive hands, as he knelt, and fulfilled his promise right away. He bowed his dark head, keeping her legs braced wide in his hands, open to his erotic invasion, she can no naught but groan,fisting her hands, hard, into the bed sheets, as she feels his tongue brush furiously over the swollen folds which wept for his attentions.

He groaned, digging _deeper_ , parting her peachy thighs wider hearing her moan louder as he did. His tongue traced intimate and artful patterns across her in a way that left her thighs trembling, leaping into his hands as her back arched. One hand of his slid away, coming to rest at her lower back, pulling her forwards to better slide his tongue deeper into her. She threw her head back. One little pale hand of hers tearing from the bed to cluthc hard into his hair. Shoving his mouth deeper. Which he smiled at, curling his muscle deeper, flicking it against the pearled tight part of her that needed the most stimulation.

“ _Thomas_ …”

She groans in a wordless gasp of adoration, her face creased into an expression of soundless, almost painful looking, pleasure.

He laps deeper, curling over that special spot. When she reached her release, he was damned certain that he would leave her bucking and screaming like _he never had before_. The animosity of his actions were rendered no less by pleasuring her, he was painfully hard, and he wanted to taste her shuddering her sweet release onto his lips. Because he would lick up _every drop_.

_He wanted to eat her alive. He wanted to feel her shake._

She wasn’t just a warm, wet, nerveless chasm which he could jab blindly into, and expect her to find pleasure in it. Every sweep of his tongue was _a study._ He was a level headed man, he approached the task _of this_ like a _pragmatist_. His wife’s private areas weren’t just for _his_ pleasure. It was for _hers_ too. And she had walls, curves, and angles which responded different ways to various pressures. And he had studied, _hard_ , on finding what worked best where. What made her gasp, what made her howl in pleasure. For example, the little hard pearl which was stiff with anticipation under his tongue, was most effected when he rubbed his tongue against her slowly, savouring her, or failing as such, she yelled when he gently dragged the pad of his thumb over it. Causing _potent_ pleasure to erupt over her. He felt that if he didn’t make, or take, the effort and time to understand how _properly_ to please his wife, then he _didn’t deserve_ to bed her. Nor did he also deserve to be inside her, nor lapping at her if he _didn’t truly understand_ _how_ he could make her reach a excellent completion.

He nuzzles deeper into her, brushing his lips and his face closer against her hearing her gasps come louder, and breathier now. His wicked tongue, she notices, paid particular attention now to focusing on the little nub of nerves that could make her shatter into a screaming climax about his tongue. And she groaned, feeling how he lapped up every single drop of the wet arousal that flowed from her. Her ewas a man who was devoted to her pleasure, so much so, it made her almost weep in joy. She felt herself nearing that sweet pang of release, it as edging closer which each flick and lap of his tongue. Her thighs trembled under his hands, and hers fisted harder into her dark hair. She didn’t have time to savour the sight of his eyes roving up to find her, she shatters. The coil in her gut, clenching tight before it panged free. Causing her to come climaxing hard and powerfully, veritably yelling his name.

He smiles, feeling her arousal seep out of her in sweet floods, telling him her release left her a whimpering, crying, shaking wanton mess of the woman she had been. When she finally shudders down off the climax that rolled pleasure through her again and again. Likes cresting waves breaking inside her. She gently released her hand from latching into his hair, stroking down the back of his neck, feeling his hot skin glide under her hand. He gently set her thighs down from where he had them braced either side of the planes of his cheeks. His blue eyes, no less lustful, climbed up every part of her body. Savouring her bare form like everyone else would a finely skilled oil painting.

“ _Oh, you are too wicked, Thomas._ ”

She groans, as he slides up and covers his mouth with his. Pushing her back to the bed, his lips breaking apart from hers for a second, allowing him to speak in a harsh low gruff against her lips.

“If _that’s wicked_ , then what I’m going to do to you now will surely be nothing short of _sinful_ …” He rasps in a filthy promise.

Elizabeth whines as her husband lunges to realign their bodies once more, his teeth scraping don her neck as he tries not to rut into her to alleviate his throbbing need. Bare skin, pressed to bare skin, savouring and relishing the need and lust which made them both grab onto each other, fisting handfuls of hot flesh on each other wherever they could manage. Thomas groaned as he felt her hands rake down his back, and she mewled his name as he cupped an arm beneath her to roam down her back, whilst the other toyed deliciously with her stiff peaks. Hardening them further into a frenzied state of desire which was almost unbearable. As it turns out, it wasn’t just unendurable for her. As with a loud growl, Thomas sat up, hauling his wife onto his lap, his back pressed against the headboard, his wife's wonderful thighs split. Either side of his body. He groans, his head dropping back, sighing long and slow, moaning vociferously as she rolls her hips just that little way forwards, sinking down onto him, enveloping every thick inch to curl deep inside of her. She felt him throb, twitching inside her, he was unable to put aside how glorious she always felt when they made love, she was always so tight, tighter than a fist, and she felt twice _as divine. Warm, wet, hot, so hot it almost scorched him, and tight too, so tight she almost viced him out._ Her body felt like home to him.

He bucked his hips, stroking himself up into her, slowly. Seeing she moaned at the pleasurable invasion of him. Her hands came up to clutch onto him, as hers went to cup the side of his neck, and the other clutched hard onto his shoulder. Her nails raking down his skin, was a delightful scrape to his mind. As he concentrates solely on giving her pleasure, finally getting his fill of her too. Ever since her mouth had lapped along his hard length he had wanted to grab her and _have her_ right then. But knowing he had to wait a while, was almost a pain. A pain only making love to her could heal. _And what a way to heal_. He remarks. But there is no frenzied rush to their completion. They move on each other slowly, and with tender movements. He gently rocked her hips, gathering up every sigh that she purrs and moans into his ear. His hand that didn’t cup her left hip, slides further down south. Reaching between her thighs, to again access that little part of her which would cause her release to be _as pleasurable_ as was possible. He strokes himself slowly up into her, but deeper as he feels her ravenously accept each deep lunge clamping down on him, _tight_ , and the way his fingers twirled across her swollen wet pearl at the very heart of her.

She groans loud, clutching, in a _mad scramble_ for his shoulders, as he smirks against her neck, his face a wordless gasp of pleasure as she tightens about him more than he would have ever thought possible. They groan their pleasure and their compliment’s at each other like soft poems. Words gasped through ragged breath, and whenever their eyes meet, it is _electric._ Waves of pleasure shoot through them, as they rocked together, closer and closer toward the sweet throes of release. Just feeling the other, Elizabeth just appreciating how good he felt thrusting up into her with slow, steady strides that slowly gathered pleasure to spark through her, and Thomas, clutching her tight, adoring how good and wet she felt atop him.

“ _Oh, Thomas_ …”

She groans in that wanton way, in the way he recognises as her greatest warning, meaning that her pleasure was nearing it’s searing peak. He sits further forwards, bracing her lower back to better slide into her deeper, not increasing the speed. She was going to climax slowly and powerfully so he could appreciate every single expression that crossed her face, and every little sigh that escaped her lips. He would have them all. Her moans, the little countenances that happened when she climaxed. They were his _. All his for the taking._ Thomas could see now, she was fighting to postpone the tempest of her release, but he could feel himself grow closer too. She was biting down her lip. Trying to go slower. He wasn’t having any of that. He was poised on the edge like a predator ready to pounce. He snatched his wife close, cradling her in his hands, swiping his fingers across her in a powerful slowl circle as he nudged his hips deeper and deeper.

“ _Let go, Elizabeth_. I want you to _come undone_ for me…”

He growls into her ear as he savagely moves her hips, his breath fogging and scorching her shoulder. But he cups to the back of her neck, still driving himself deep into her. Feeling her scream loud by his ear, fuelling his smirk that sat smug on his lips, pressed into her neck, his shouts coming too, as her tightening down on him only served to send him shattering into his own release. Thrusting up, hard, finally and forcefully, as she clamped him, and drained him of everything he had to give. Spilling hard and fast into her, his own climax leaving his vision dancing, and his legs feeling suspiciously, stupendously weak. Elizabeth is only concentrating on one thing, and that was making she clutched onto him through the all consuming blissful waves of pleasure that broke across her body, again, again and again. Shuddering up through her in a way that left her bucking, and weak.

When she finally relocates her head and her voice, she pays attention to all the things that her chasing after pleasure had blinded her too. Like the fact that she was drenched head to toe in sweat, her pale body a glistening vision to his eyes in the dim candlelight, and that she had left some rather raw and raking nail marks down her husbands pale shoulders. Little red crescent shaped welts standing out on his beautifully pale skin. But, he didn't seem to mind, he brushed his forehead against hers. Sliding his hands up her back, folding her into a breathy toe curling kiss. Still joined together, very much both feeling the need to collapse onto their bed, and cool down from the blazing heats of both their sexual highs.

“ _My god, woman_. If we don’t make a baby _after that_ , well. I’m going to have my work cut out to start _trying harder…”_

He rasps, stroking sticky coils of hair off the back of her dewy neck. His chest swelling and sinking as he panted. Strands of his inky hair were stuck to his forehead too.

She groaned, biting her lip as she smiled at him. Still heaving through her breath. Trying desperately to settle her heart rate to something vaguely normal. And to get her body to calm down from the reddening flush that swarmed so obviously across her creamy skin.

“That _wasn’t_ you _trying hard?”_ She asks a tad incredulously.

He smirks like a rogue to that.

“I flatter myself to say that was more of a _warming up kind of_ exercise…” He winks dirtily at her.

She both feels and hears him chuckle as she slumped forwards onto him. Burying her forehead in his pale shoulder. She kisses across his shoulders, soothing the raking red scratches she left there. After a tirade of kisses, she broke away to murmur _‘bad man’_ before kissing him again, and then adding a _‘very bad man’_ against his upper arm as she kissed her way down.

“She japes. Yet the lady still married me…”

He pointed out, stroking his hand down the back of her neck, watching her smile.

“For my own defence, I didn’t know what a scandalous man you were back then..” She adds.

He swatted her ass as she lifted herself off him, and they both slid under the warmed bedcovers, the candles had almost burned out now. All they needed to do was flop into their bed, and sleep the remainder of the night away.

“I gave you a _good sampling taster_ of my scandalousness before we were engaged. Or do you not remember my pleasuring you that afternoon in your family library? Because I do, I can vividly remember you climaxing all over my fingers when I curled them into you…”

He growled teasingly into her ear as she led on her side to face him.

She sighed, her eyes resting sleepily as a furious red blush overtook her face.

“Rest yourself, you scoundrel..”

She smiles, happily sinking into the cushions, feeling his arms tuck her into her slightly sweat soaked chest, feeling his muscles burn hot under her hand, and his heart thump away, every beat for her, as it rampantly pounded in his ribcage.

“I like making my beautiful wife blush..”

He answered back, kissing her forehead. Nuzzling into her scented hair. Loving how she felt, drifting to sleep right before him soft and resting, in his arms. The rest of his life could be this. And that thought makes him happier than anything he’s ever known. Though he did want to see the day when their little children populated the house, running about, and generally grating so on their tired parents nerves, though that image did make him so very warm from the inside out. For now, he would happily endure enjoying his wife to himself for a while. Just the two of them. The two of them. Warm. Sated. And safe. Whilst the rainstorm poured outside. 

He smiled. Pressing a kiss into her hair. Chuckling to himself as he felt sleep falling quickly upon him.

 _Just the two of us._ He thinks. _Now that, did sound rather more than agreeable to his mind._

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. So I have a question for you all. Back, years ago now it seems, when this story was set in London. I had chapters with sections from a gossip columnist, ~The Society Letters Of Lady Jane Plidebright~ and I was thinking, of doing a Derbyshire equivalent, just to keep a little flow going. I mean, they weren't essential to the story. But I thought it was a funny and entertaining way to give a little window into the characters and the situations when we couldn't see them. And it's also a great way to break my writers block (touchwood if there is any) and introduce little key facts into the story. Let me know what you think, people. Cause I think it could be funny and a better way of getting to know the new faces up Thomas's end of the country? Y? N? 
> 
> But, as always, I am led by opinion and feedback. So pleeaaaaassssssseeeeee let me know what you think...
> 
> & as always, Thankyou for the love and appreciation. bookmarks, kudos, comments, subscriptions anything. It makes me very happy and proud. Its really lovely of you all. and I, just....love you, really. <3 x


	60. -The Gossip Columns Of Lady Philomena Twaddle -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Look at the recent characters page (Chpater 57) with Anabelle, Flora, etc on it. A couple more have been added for your viewing pleasure.... x

 

 

-

 

Great news, my readers, _great news indeed_.

For it was this day that the news reached this authors ears, that Sir Thomas Kenworthy, the most handsome and eligible bachelor in all of Derbyshire, _is married._

The Duke himself was in attendance at Sir Robert Compton's Ball last eve, whereby we understand he was wed in London, just this week gone, to a professors daughter from Montague Street. (This author has ears and eyes all over England, she would like to point out) joined in holy matrimony to the radiant and saintly, not to mention divinely beautiful, Miss Elizabeth Farrow, who now bares the title as the Duchess of Chatsworth. This is most marvellous news, dear friends. Though it was said to have caused a few tears from distraught Mama's and Debutante's alike. The elusive dark haired, handsome man is now off the market to all the eligible young ladies in Derbyshire, down this part of the world. It is understood by this author that the marriage match is not just a fine upstart for the Miss Farrow, but that it is a match based on pure love, and nothing less.

Flora Hastings was said to have remarked that the couple looked most suited to one another, in both temper and appearance as they indulged in the second waltz of the evening. This was reported to have then made her younger sister, a Miss determined Anabelle Hastings, burst into a temper and stomp sulkily over to the refreshment corner with a face that was akin to just having tasted a sour lemon.

It was mentioned that Miss Anabelle had a few nasty words to unload onto the new Duchess, as anyone who is anyone could see how she had, since she was young, set her cap for the Duke. But Messrs Johnson and Wheeler, were said to have overheard the Duchess unload a slightly barbed comment right back upon the poisonous words she gifted to the wedded Lord and Lady. This author cannot help but comment that a well known green monster is fuelling Miss Anabelle's ferocity to the flame haired Duchess. Perhaps the young country bred miss wishes it was her in the Duchesses shoes. For it is known she pined deeply for the man every season when he was off in London. But, too little too late, Miss Hasting. Judging by the veritable flood of chatter at how ardently the Duke looks upon his wife, there shall be no coming between them for anything on heaven and earth. The shades of Chatsworth shall not be polluted by such foul, childish envy.

In other news, The many gentleman about the ball remarked to take a sudden notice of the Duke's widowed sister. Mrs Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, for she reportedly wore a fetching gown of soft pastel pink that enhanced her fine figure. Known to favour bland dress after the death of her husband, it appears she is now shifting into enjoying softer, warmer colours for her gowns. And, even going so far as to enjoy - _very much so_ \- the company of the new Vicar to Chatsworth Chapel, the tawny haired, tall and smirking, ever handsome and friendly Hugh Everett. Who took up to _four dances_ with the woman. And the were reputed to have spent the entire night in one another's company. Laughing, smirking and conversing in too warm and friendly a manner to consider it polite acquaintance. According to the scandalous, and rake-like Sir Rupert Farrell, dark curly haired, green eyed devastation, and the cause of _man_ y a broken heart to Derbyshire ladies, stated he had _never seen_ Iris, of whom he remarked he often had a _tendre_ of a favour for many years earlier, look to beguiled by a man's presence. He spent the entire evening watching over the couple like a hawk. Drinking brandy in the gentleman's corner. His hazel eyes _never once_ leaving Mrs Iris Thatcher Kenworthy.

The young Niece to the Duke, Miss Edith Kenworthy is said to have spent most of the evening with her head stuck inside the works of Elizabeth Gaskell. that was, until she was said to stir when approached by an eligible young man her own age. And she folded down her book, and smiled, as the young Mr Henry McKinnon, Mr Herald McKinnon, the most famed and skilled Solicitor to Castleton, engaged her in a conversation which left her smiling, and remarkably for the book-wormed girl, _not_ with her nose stuck to the pages. Matter of fact, it is said she looked _most enamoured_.

And of course, Sir Robert was heard by many, being chided by his wife, for stating that should he have been in his more youthful years, and had he not such a gouty disposition, then he would have leapt up and wed Mrs Elizabeth Kenworthy herself, not to mention taking a few dances with the woman. For she is said to be the most enchanting and fair beauty there ever was seen. Sir Thomas certainly broke the mold selecting her for his wife. She is most fine, and sure to be the new envy of Derbyshire in all her glory...

 (It would not do to being up how Miss Anabelle Hastings scoffed at the pair of them dancing, and spent all evening with her face looking as glum as can be. Not helped by the fact her sister, Flora, and Lady Hastings chatted animatedly with the Duchess, and said to have sung praise of her. To which Miss Hastings the younger, glared at them for it.)

Well. It appears we shall have a new friendly face among our crowds, readers, let us see how the new Duchess settles into Derbyshire life. This author predicts Miss Elizabeth Kenworthy will be the finest Duchess there ever was seen. And Thomas, like his father before him, Sir Robert Compton explained, will do great things.

 

Let us hope so, readers, for it looks like there is going to be  _plenty_ of ripe gossip lingering on the horizon to be reported upon. Keep your appetites wet, and ears attuned. More shall come of this couple, this author is sure of it...

 

 

 

-The Gossip Columns Of Lady Philomena Twaddle, 18th May, 1856 -

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	61. Tiger's, Doctor's, Solitude, and Unsettling News...

 

 

~ Chatsworth Gardens ~

 

 ~ Elizabeth's Gown ~

 

 

Next Morning, at breakfast, the mood and the air about Chatsworth dining room was lively, and as colourful as usual. Edith and Elizabeth were seated next to one another, with Elizabeth helping Edith through a particularly difficult passage in Robert Burns’ Collected poetry. As his Scottish prose was nearly as thick as pea soup. Nonetheless, as Edith sipped her tea and tried to find a logical path through the heavily Scottish penned words, Elizabeth noiselessly nibbled on a corner of golden buttered toast, and leaned over, still chewing, trying to help her niece. Opposite them at the table, sat Iris and Judith. Iris of whom was reading through a couple of her letters, all the while Judith was feeding crusts to her pet tiger, the threadbare toy whom flopped ungraciously onto the white table cloth beside her. Fat golden crumbs littering it’s chops and whiskers as she force fed it toast and marmalade. Ophelia had claimed it was too cold out today, even though it was a more than temperate summers day, and therefore resided in her private rooms to take breakfast. Thomas was slumbering still, So Elizabeth left him to it. They had shared rather exhausting intimacies last night. She had _never known_ their love making to be so tantric. _But_ , she sighs happily with a smile _, it was_.

The four lone ladies were interrupted as Wilkin’s strode into the room, post tray aloft on his palm. As he slipped some missives to Iris. And a couple to Elizabeth. She smiled in accepting them as she thanked the Butler. The handwriting upon one was Mrs Sharpes hand, scratched on the rose perfumed pink paper she routinely _insisted_ on writing with, and the other thick off white padded envelope was from her father. She recongised the musty scent of old books and peppermint, and the hints of pipe tabacco that lined the parchment, and his study, which was presumably where he penned the letter. She lifted it to her face and inhaled the scent of her old home. Warming her gut as she remembered fondly her life in London. Raindrops in a hurricane compared to the splendour of the home she had now. And the new wonderful family, and husband.

She lifted her toast to take another bite, before a swell of nausea rolled through her, she shuddered, swallowing down bile climbing thickly up her throat, and placing the toast back down on her plate. That was the second time this morning she had not felt well. Earlier, as she bathed and dressed, she had stood to pull on her dressing gown to rise from bed, and her eyes and vision clouded for a moment, dizziness rolling through her body, sickness stroking up from her stomach, forcing her to press a hand to the bedpost to stop herself from toppling over. Even the champagne she tasted last night at Sir Robert’s ball had left an acidic tang in her mouth. She drank it nonetheless, but half wondered if it may have been a bad taste to the glass, or the bottle had been off, she had never known the drink to be _so bitter._

Edith looked across to her aunt as she sighed loudly, exhaling a long, deep breath. Pushing the plate of toast away from her with one gentle push. Sliding it far away across the table top. Her eyes switched up to Elizabeth’s face. She did look a little pale, even for her. Usually her face glowed with a soft ivory radiance. But just then, she looked a touch afflicted.

“Are you alright, Elizabeth?” Edith asked with a caring frown.

Elizabeth took another deep breath, smiling as she did. Turning back to her niece.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’m fine. Just, had a funny feeling for a moment. I’m fine.” She insisted.

Edith nodded, looking across to her mother over the table. Iris too was watching their relative with kind curiosity in her eyes. As she opened another missive. But then their attention was turned to the little tot sat next to her as she cried;

“I have come to the conclusion, that Tiger’s _do not_ like toast..” She announced loudly, and in a metter of fact, tone to her little voice.

All three of them smiled at her.

“I think that the canivores famously prefer meat, Judith..” Edith smiled to her sister.

“But spotty is usually _so hungry_ for his toast of a morning…” Judith protested. As the saggy tiger sat there, its beady eyes shining glumly in the light from the window, it’s face comically glum looking. Almost as if it didn’t want anymore bread jabbed into the stitched wavering smile that was supposed to act as it’s mouth.

“Spotty?” Edith asked.

“ _Yes?_ ” Judith asked blatanly.

“ _Spotty_ is the name you have selected with which to title your _striped_ tiger..” Edith asked.

Judith frowned at her elder sister, who was being _so remarkably boring_ this morning.

“If I called him _Stripy_ , Edith, I would look like _an idiot_ …”

Judith insisted with a roll of her eyes. And yes, even Britains most auspiscous five year old had managed to work out how to successfully _roll_ her eyes in such a manner.

Iris and Elizabeth laughed at the little Madam. Edith sighed, a little defeated, but smiled nonetheless as she went back to focusing on her book.

“I think I shall _stop_ asking you things, Judith.” Edith muttered silently to herself.

Judith paid no attention, she was now happily nattering away to the animal. Stroking its worn amber ears. As Iris attempted to refocus herself on her letters. She lifted her teacup to her lips, and everyone looked up to her as it clattered noisily with a loud clashing sound, back into it’s saucer as she opened and read her next letter.

Everyones attentions snapped to the woman, as she looked both a little unnerved, yet delighted at the same time.

“Mother?” Edith enquired. “Whatever is the matter?” She asked. Fearing it was another appalling letter from her grandmother again. That always grieved Iris to receive as such. To know that their relative was only writing as to ask for more funds, as she run out on a little gambling adventure, or a particularly expensive hat she saw in milan, or _god only knows_ what else…

Iris lowered her hand from her mouth, and the entire table saw she was wearing a giddy smile.

“It is from Hugh Everett…” She smiled.

Elizabeth and Edith grinned wide at one another.

“He wishes to call upon us, later today, at four o’clock… He says he shall be walking his dogs through the North East Chatsworth woods, and would adore to call on us, to procure all of our company for the outing…”

She smiled like a lovesick girl. Everyone could see her pale cheeks redden a little as she read through.

“That’s very kind of him. And I do adore his dogs, Effie, and Casper. They are such a lovely pair of animals..”

Elizabeth smiled. Winking to Edith as she thought she might try a small sip of tea, seeing if that would settle her stomach.

“ _Oh_ , before I forget, Edith, Judith, our Doctor is coming today, Doctor Parsons. He shall be here at three to make sure we are all in good health…” Iris added.

“Okay..”

Edith mumbled half heartedly, not taking her eyes off the book in front of her. Not really listening either, judging by the monotone drawl of her voice.

“I wonder, afterwards, might I see him aswell? I’ve been feeling a little, _shaken_ , as of late…I’m sure it is nothing, but, I felt a little, _peaky,_ this morning…” Elizabeth explained. Iris smiled.

“Of course. I’m sure he’d be only too happy to attend you.” Iris offered kindly.

“Thankyou.”

Elizabeth beamed, sipping her tea, before Edith caught her attention again. Robert Burns was really proving to be a _true trial_ today, she noted. If only she had a scottish person on hand to help her translate some of the indecipherable words;

It was then the unmistakable clack of boots striding along floorboards beyond the dining room door, alerted all four ladies to the company of the Duke about to join them. Elizabeth lifted her head and smiled, as she regaurded the handsome frame of her beloved husband moving through the door, smiling a good morning to all of his ladies. He had better try hard to sire a male heir, and soon, not for any sake of passing down Chatsworth, or keeping the family name. _No, nothing_ straight laced and _boring like that_. Just that he was feeling a little outstripped with all the lovely lady relatives who surrounded him.

He rather felt he needed a baby boy in order just to restore the _gender balance_. So he didn’t feel _quite so outnumbered_. Plus, the thought of his wife, curled up in bed, smiling lovingly down at a little tiny pink baby bundled into blankets in her arms. To see those little blue eyes it would doubtless inherit from them both, blinking back up at him. He would be _someone new,_ reaching out it’s tiny pink hand to him, feeling for this bright new world around them. And he’d be a _father_.

He would teach his son how to play cricket, how to be always be civil and polite to ladies, how to run about and be racous, and have fun with his tired, but laughing parents chasing after him, in fun and games. He could just see it now, sprinting across the emerald lawn, Elizabeth not far off him, red hair sailing out, gleaming a brilliant red in the sun. Holding her skirts aloft, and tearing after the little kid with a huge grin on her face. And he would catch up to his little boy, snatch him into his arms and laugh like he was a child himself. That was his new dream. His old one had been fulfilled. And that was to marry Elizabeth. Now he had her, he wanted to spent and devote every waking moment to making her the happiest woman on earth. Cross his heart, and hope to die.

He crossed first to his wife. Placing a kiss upon her head. And mumbling his staple ‘ _Good Morning Wife_ ’ to her. As he did every morning when they woke. His smooth hand lovingly cupping the back of her neck as he kissed her.

“Did you sleep well? My dear… I thought I’d allow you to slumber in a little.” She smiled.

“Very wise, Wife. It was _much_ needed.”

He sighed happily, his voice still gruff and hoarse from sleep. Easing himself down into the chair at the head of the table, folding his napkin onto his lap, rubbing a hand down his tired face. Elizabeth watched him for a long second. His eyes were weighed down by grey circles underlining his peircing blue eyes. And his smile was gently sloped. And it wouldn’t take a fool to notice that the little spark of energy he usually had, was not there this morning. Some things were clearly weighing down on his mind this morning. He hadn’t bothered with a cravat, either. His white shirt was undressed at the neck, buttoned up just so to his collarbone. To taunt her with the lovely pale triangle of skin below his neck. He had pulled on a pale silver waistcoat, left unbuttoned. With the usual dark coloured breeches and boots on his legs. Elizabeth tilted her head with a kind smile, pushing her chair back, she crossed to the silver teapot just out of his reach, and slid the empty saucer and cup closer, to pour him a great glug of strong tea into it. After adding a dash of milk, she handed it to him. Also with the paper she had quickly scanned through.

“With have a fleet of servants, whose job it is to pour the tea. I didn’t marry you for _that_ …”

Thomas smiled softly, his hand coming about his wifes waist as she stood next to him, tucking into the slop of her waist, in a way he had perfected to an art, as he was around her. Elizabeth beamed down at this unbearably handsome creature looking back up at her, she stroked a hand down the bristled plane of his flawless jaw.

“Can a wife not treasure and care for her husband?”

She asks. Her free hand reaching over to place him a round of toast on his plate, also levering the butter dish closer in his direction. His arm didn’t leave it’s position of being linked about her waist. But his free hand, previously on the table top, found her unused hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. It was a prolonged and deep kiss. As he savoured the feel of her silky skin under his hand. And the scent of her engulfed him as he worshipped her for a lonely second. No one else in the room mattered, right then but her. Lovely, beautiful, all consuming, generous, her. _His wife_. His one and only. So long as they both shall live. He was as in love with her now, as he would be in eighty years from now. He had been unable not to fall head over heels with her from the very instance he first laid eyes on her.

His love didn’t grow with each day, it had been cosmic and infinate from the first second he laid eyes on her.

When he pulled back, he didn’t let her hand go. Instead he pulled her closer. Elizabeth yelped, especially as she now found herself half draped across his lap. Her back pressed to the arm of the chair. Her bottom cushioned into his lap, her legs thrown to fold over the other arm of the chair.

“ _Mi’Lord_.” Elizabeth shrilled.

Iris and Edith shared a loving look across the table. They were so bonkers about each other, it was almost mad. Judith giggled at them. Iris went back to her letters with a happy smile, circling her eyes over Hugh Everett’s artful hand. He wrote in such a lovely friendly manner, and his hand was very neat and elegant. Edith hid her smile in the brim of her teacup, looking down over Robert Burns. Whom she would translate into sense, even if it killed her.

Elizabeth noted his eyes glowed a touch warmer and lustful, as she squeaked the formal title at him. She remember’s how he purred _he loved_ how she yelped it when he made an amorous advance on her when he knew _he really_ shouldn’t.

“You are not setting any fine examples to a roomful of impressionable umarried women.” Elizabeth chided him.

He smiled, puckering a quick smack of a kiss to her lips.

“Judith, _look away_. Edith avert your eyes. Here sits a husband _dangerously_ in love with his wife..”

Thomas smiled, not taking his eyes of his wifes. Stroking a hand to brush gently along the nape of her neck, tanatlising her skin, and stroking her silky red hair. The coiled wisps that he loved to see leading down her neck. Elizabeth smiled down at him, though he looked raggedly tired and worn through, there still retained to his character, that little glimmer of playful charm.

“What plans have you for today?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not many.” Thomas smiled, shifting his legs to tip her closer into his chest.

“I have a few letters to write, but save for that, my day is unburdened. I am yours to command at your _leisure._ My Lady.” He beamed. “Though I promised Milton, my stable hand, I’d see to a problem with one of the carriages wheels, later.”

He thought in a idle side note. And then Hobbes was here before noon to fix the broken window with a new plane of glass. The board of wood panelled over it at the moment looked most unseemly.

“Well. If the weather stays fine, shall we take a walk together? I have yet to see the wild meadows and the stream to the back of the house..” She smiles.

“Then walking we shall go.” He promises.

“May you unhand me now?” She asks nicely.

“ _Shan’t_.” He offers back, hugging her close.

“I haven’t had my _fill_ of you, yet.” He answers her. Resting his handsome, scruffly chin down on her shoulder. Which was impossible. He had plenty of her last night abed.

Elizabeth eventually managed to wrangle herself free. And when she stood. She placed a kiss down on his minty scented hair.

“Drink your tea. Thomas. And come and find me when you get a break in letter writing..”

She urges. Walking around Edith and grabbing her letters from her parent’s. She’d savour them in solitude for a couple of hours. Whilst Edith had her library time, and Judith and Iris saw nanny Lyons for some english tutoring. She longed to hear the news from London. All the same old situations, she was sure. She’d get a veritable ghettysburg address from Araminta about the state of her _poor frail_ nerves now her eldest was away from home. She’d probably get clued in on Felicity being cheeky, kissing more boys and generally plaguing upon the household like the legend’s of a greek harpy. And how her father swore his ears were beginning to become vestigial organs. The things now more for _decoration_ on the side of his head, than purpose, protecting him from the now rampant stream of silliness that constantly _poured_ through their household. Devoid of her enlightening and sensible company. Apart from this, they were all well, and missing her like mad. And Elizabeth had in mind to have them all visit as soon as they could manage, to stay for the whole of June if they could. She had spoken to Thomas about it, and the word ‘yes’ had come sailing out of his mouth with a great big smile, before she had even finished speaking.

She bid her new family a good morning, and Thomas lovingly watched her as she walked away. Slipping quietly off out of the door. To take some time alone with her letters. It was the only time she elected to have alone. All other times, she merrily agreed to be with her new family. Everyone needed a little time to themselves now and again. But, his mind wanted to be selfish and indignant, he wanted every waking minute of her to himself. Though he knew that was a little too far fetched, he couldn’t help it.

His eyes slid over the divine figure of his wife before she smiled and dissapeared.

He was _dangerously_ in love with her after all.

~

 

 

~Later that Afternoon ~

 

She had spent a great deal of the morning to herself. Cosied up on a little bench, hidden away In the luxurious, full and blooming perfumed gardens of Chatsworth. Currently bathed under warming rays of kind sunshine, a fluttery warm breeze passing by her where she sat on the bench which encircled a tree. Reading through Mrs Sharpe’s letter. And the one from her Father also. Apparantly, Felicity had elected to take up sketching. Which was a venture that didn’t endure past one afternoon. She threw a tantrum, and decided to go gown shopping instead, spending all her pin money on a ridiculously expensive, and _highly indecent_ purple gown. Mrs Sharpe, was in very good health, but was anxious about her daughter being so far away. For she had heard it from her friend, Lady Forthtonne, who had it from Mrs Euphrasia Buckle, whom overheard Mrs Lavinia Betteridge, that a particularly horrid illness was storming through Derbyshire at present. Said to be a kind of tiring, sickness and plaguing flu, of which yet had no _determined cure._

So Mrs Sharpe had taken to her writing desk, and immediatley fired off a long, detailed letter to Elizabeth to remain indoors, and rub fresh ginger onto her hands, and keep a hot brick at her feet each night.

She laughed, rolling her eyes as she read through.

“ _Oh, Mrs Sharpe_..” She chuckled.

It was just like being back at Montague Street all over again. One year, Mrs Sharpe had been convinced that bubonic plague had made a return – _resolute_ this was so as she had heard the stable hand let out one _single_ particularly vicious cough – There had been garlands of roses and fresh herbs lining their hallway for weeks because of her worrying. She laughed fondly to herself at the memory. She was always so afflicted with mere rumours. It was nice to see she hadn’t changed her ways in Elizabeth’s absence.

She then opened the Farrow wax sealed latter from her father, it was a little dated to still seal letters with wax. But her father was a stickler for the conventional norm he had grown so used to. Her fingers glided over the moulded family crest that had once been her own. Before she levered it open, and devoured the contents.

“ _Papa_ …” She smied fondly as she read.

He started by telling her how ardently she was missed. And how he hoped they could see her soon. And then there was the usual paragraph, detailing how daft her mother and sister were. Up to their usual standards, he was pleased to report. And he also informed her that her stocks which he played in her name, were growing larger in a most pleasing manner.

She had brought a book out also, which now rested on the bench next to her, as she curled up comfortably to read. It must have atleast been maybe three or four hours, she had been out here now. And she had taken herself off on a little stroll through the bluebell ridden woods. And that had been atleast two hours, she fancies. She had indulged herself in the most _perfect_ solitary morning.

The sun smiled down on her, The sky was clear and as blue as anything. The birds sung high and merrily in the trees, and she had never felt more elated, nor lucky.

Before she remembered that Iris had told her the doctor would be arriving at three to check upon them all. She made her way slowly back through the gardens. Plucking a lavender stalk into her hand as she passed by the hedges which burst onto the gravelled path she strode down. Her letters and book sin her spare hand, as she brought the lavender under her nose, and sniffed it, inhaling the scent she loved so much, deep.

She passed under the swarming concrete arch. Which teemed with flowers and fauna. Feeling rose thorns tug lightly at her dress, as she happily made her way slowly through the manicured lawns, chirping a friendly hello to their Gardener, Barkley, whom currently had his hands buried into the dirt, planting a new vibrant coloured patch of the beds with bright blue flowers. He returned her fond greeting. She rounded up the other the rose gardens, the house coming into view now. The walled garden where she had been tucked away, hid the beautiful sight of Chatsworth manor from her view. Which now the full, unhindered view of such, loomed out from the powder blue skies. The dusky yellow brick of it, shining high on the turetted towers, catching in the sun. Each window winking back across at her.

She walked along the side of the house, seeing that as she did, coming to the front drive, a small carriage crackled its way up the gravel, eating away the ground under it, before it swerved to a stop just before her. She reached up and pulled off her hat. It was a very plain thing. A white flat brim, with a blue ribbon tied around the dome of it, leading back down her neck. But it matched her dress, and she also thought she may need it for it nasty weather befell her. She too had a blue shawl about her shoulders. She nodded to Ramsey, who bid her a raspy

“Good day, Your ladyship.’ Tipping his hat at her, from atop the carriage.

She nodded kindly back, bidding him a good afternoon.

Elizabeth watched as an old, but not infirm man clambered down from the carriage. He was dressed mostly in black, with pinstriped grey trousers, and a tophat on his head. He looked aged, and a little sombre in his black clothing, but other than that, he looked kind. His eyes were a careful shade of grey. And in his hands, he held a small brown leather bag. She knew who he was from that alone.

“Hello Sir, You must be Dr Parsons.”

Elizabeth smiled, moving forwards to meet him. Holding out her hand. Seeing that the Doctor’s face broke into a small grin.

“Forgive my brassy Introduction. But I am Elizabeth Kenworthy, The Duchess of Chatsworth.” She smiled, firmly shaking his hand.

“It is not _brassy_ in the least, Your Ladyship.”

He smiled back, she slowly moved beside him as they began to walk indoors, talking all the while.

“I know you came to call upon Iris, Edith and Judith. But might I be so impertintent as to beg a consultation from you? I am new to Derbyshire you see. I have only been here for three weeks now. And have not yet had a chance to seek out a physician in this area.” She explained as they moved into the house.

She watched Doctor Parsons smile.

“Naturally. Of course, My Lady. It makes sense for one family to see one Doctor. I should be happy to attend you. I must confess. I am a _little early_ , myself. It has only just gone half past two.”

“ _Oh,_ I was out of doors. The time passed me by most quickly. I’m afraid I lost track of it...”

She confessed. As they began to climb the grand staircase.

“Well. It is _such_ a pleasing day.” He admitted, seeing the sun shining bright through the windows, beaming warmth into the grand house.

“If you should wish, my Lady. I can attend to you, before I see the other ladies at Three. If that is convenient, upon you?”

He asks, as they topped the stairs, rounding the corner and coming along a hallway. They could do the examination in one of the less used parlours to the second floor. That should be perfectly adequate.

“ _Perfect_.”

Elizabeth smiled, as they slid through the door. Him gesturing for her to go first.

It was the usual doctor’s routine. A tongue press to check the back of the throat, an eye examination, a hammer to the knees. Checking of pulses, and the routine questions about ones general health. Elizabeth was led back upon the chaise, propped up on a few pillows, as the doctor listened to her heart through his stethoscope. He listened to her chest, and her back. As it was Elizabeth was just telling him about her funny turn this morning, and then again at Breakfast. When she shuddered with nausea at the sight of food. When he nodded, pressing the instrument down upon her stomach. Perfectly normal. But the look on his face was _not._

He frowned, as if trying to listen more intently. Pressing his scope to her side, to the middle of her tummy now. Before shifting it a little further to rest low on her navel. She went completely stone dead silent. Was something wrong with her? Her eyes shot a little wide, and her body went completely still, rigid, as if her moving might disturb him somehow.

Something akin to shock and dread weighed down her gut as he spoke.

“I think I have _some unsettling_ … _news_ … for you, Lady Kenworthy…” He began.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. No I am not evil. all will be explained...


	62. February, Madmen, and Brave Sisters...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here there be drama, a whole tonne of it

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth isn’t sure how long she sat, watching a particular spot on the parlour wall, wringing her skirts so hard in her hands little crescents were left in the fabric. She had been like this ever since Doctor Parsons left her, almost thirty minutes ago. He had to go and attend to Iris, and the girls. And had asked if she would care for him to break the news to them. But she insisted she’d do it herself. This would change everything _. Life altering news_ , so she felt she was perfectly allowed to take a few moments to bask in it’s disconcerting manner for a moment, _or thirty_. She swallowed. It was still a very early stage, he had said. There would come other symptoms much later. She had heard about this particular affliction. But, as with any serious condition, she never imagined a day where it would be _her_ undergoing it.

She took a deep levelling breath. Standing, on suspiciously wobbly feeling legs, and walked to the window as she heard the unmistakable sound of dogs barking, and Judith’s laughter echoing up the house. Looking out over the lawns, she could see Iris walking slowly along, with Reverend Everett at her side, and Edith, with a book folded in her hands, was just ahead of them. Leaving her mother to it as she looked after her sister. The two were smiling happily at one another, deep in conversation. Obviously Doctor Parsons had been quick to finish in attending to her, as she had a walking appointment to keep with the man and his delightful canines.

Elizabeth could see Judith streaking across the lawn, blonde hair flying behind her, as she giggled with both Effie and Casper running after the stick she clasped in her hands, threatening to throw it for them to chase. They looked like such a jolly party. It warmed her heart right through. And she smiled. Suddenly, emboldened by seeing the merry sight, she somehow felt she had a burst of conscience. She crossed to the sofa, yanked her shawl into her hands, and was scurrying away out of the door by the time she had managed to loop It across her shoulders. She scattered quickly through the hallways of her home, she needed to find her husband _. As_ _soon as was possible._ She darted down the grand stairs, and nearly _ran over_ Wilkin’s as she bypassed him with a tea tray.

“ _Milady?”_ He asked both in confusion and wonder.

All he got in reply was a chirpy _‘So sorry, Wilkin’s’_ Thrown over her shoulder as she disappeared on off out the door at a rate of knots. Her speed was almost _incalculable_ to be accommodated by western mathematical principles. The Butler blinked in the wake of her rushing, seeing her skirts whipping out the front door as the only reminder, the blurring flash of blue and gold fabric, that she had passed him by.

There came a dry, smoky chuckle from beside him. As the rumpled, and dewy cook, Mrs Elmstone, a middle aged woman, with brown hair up in her cooks cap, and a cheeky cockney twang to her accent that she never lost, spoke up beside him. She’d just come up for air from the kitchens to check on her grocery order with the head of the house. But she couldn’t be away for _too long_. She had a pair of partridges ready to be buttered and broiled down in the kitchen, and her timing could _not afford_ to be thrown. _Not in her kitchen._ She was dressed in her usual overalls, a donkey brown, frayed in most strategic places, fabric, and her off white apron, knotted about her waist, stained with gravy and butter and god only knows what else from long since passed dinners.

“ _Hark at ‘er!”_ She laughed as both her and Wilkin’s watched the Duchess’s feet almost leave the ground, she was moving so speedily.

“I wouldn’t move that fast even if I had a pack of dogs after me..” She grumbled in her dry wit. An amused smile on her lips.

“I daresay not.” Wilkin’s spoke, raising one brow. They both looked after her for a long moment, Before Ethel Elmstone slapped a wrinkled piece of paper to he Butler’s chest.

“ _‘Ere_. You see to it that I get me promised ten pounds of Maris Piper this time… Last time they skimped me and I had grousing from _up and above_ stairs for a _bloomin’ month_.” She ordered in a low incontestable tone.

Wilkin’s rolled his eyes. Taking the paper that had been inelegantly _thwacked_ to his chest.

Outside, Elizabeth’s hasty speed was ground to a halt. For it appears, she had looked in all the right places for him. Because suddenly, here he was _. Right in front_ of her. He had mentioned something to her earlier in the day at breakfast, about helping the stable hand to fix a wobbly wheel on the trap cart. Which was poised just in front of the door on the gravel drive. And she could see her husband stood atop it, wiping his hands on a cloth. Testing the suspension. Towering tall in the blaze of the evening sun that burned across the front of the house. She smiled seeing him again. When they were not together, she almost let herself forget how much she loved him. But then she saw him again, and she just _melted_. Instantly being reminded of how much she adored the man she had wed.

He turned to the door and caught sight of her. Still wearing the same thing that he had been earlier. The undone waistcoat, his sleeves rolled far up his arms. Except now, his hands were partially covered in muck and grime from his fixing efforts. Which he was wiping away with the tattered rag in his hands.

Thomas smiled down at her as she crossed to him. Eyes lighting up at the sight of his love once more. In the feeling fingers of the ochre light that fluttered across her, her hair shone a brilliant copper in the light.

“Forgive me for not finding you, darling. I’m afraid my chores kept me busy.”

He explained with a sorry looking frown of empathy and guilt, as she came to stand down in front of the open topped cart. Peering up at him with a loving smile.

“It’s no matter.”

She smiles, seeing he leant down and offered her his hand.

She took it and braced her foot on the hold, the other still clutching the blue shawl about her and found she was soon hauled up onto the cart with him, almost crushed to his chest. His hand held hers firmly. Stroking his thumb lovingly across the back of it. Looking across at her with those bright blue eyes she adored to be under the gaze of. She stepped onto the trap, with her back facing the drive, and him, now having his back to the house.

“ _Oh_ , but it is. I don’t like to think I am a man who skips out on his promises to his _dear_ wife.” He smiled.

“Thomas, it does not matter to me _. Not one bit._ You keep all the promises that _truly_ matter.”

She smiled, cupping his scruffly unshaven cheek.

“Such as?” He asks with a perfect smile.

“You promised to marry me. And you did.” She started.

He nodded, it was true. There was no mistaking that.

“You promised to give me a home. And you did that too.”

She explained, nodding her head to the huge and stunning mansion behind him.

He turned and looked. Nodding his head so his inky hair flopped about.

“Ok, that, _again,_ is true..” He accepted.

“You gave me a _bigger_ Family. Namely a lovely sister in law, a mad great aunt, and a pair of beautiful and entertaining nieces…” She smiles. Not finished.

“I consider them more, part of the bargain that came along with the _marrying me bit._..”

He explained cheekily, stroking his hand down the back of her neck that made her shiver and tingle all over in delight.

“While that may be so. My Love..”

She smiles. Giddily drawing a breath, wetting her lips.

“I fear, that our family is about to get a little _bigger still_ …”

She smiles.

He frowned. Blinking in confusion at what she was trying to imply.

She chuckled, rolling her eyes at the damn man, taking his hand and placing it low on her midriff. Pressing against the chiffon of her dress. Underneath of which, soon, there would be new life. Seeing a wonderful and plentiful look of show made his brows shoot up his head, and his mouth hung down low. Jaw snapped wide. Eyes glittering in disbelief.

“You mean?! We?...”

He asks, his voice barely rising above a whisper

Elizabeth smiled knowingly.

“You and I, Thomas. We’ll be a family of _three_ by the first week of February.”

She speaks slowly.

He didn’t speak for a long time. She watched the words sinking in. Almost able to hear his mind ticking over where he stood. Before his head dropped down, looking to where she had placed his hand, resting on her tummy. He blinked, mouth still agape, looking down, both hands came to her tummy now, stroking over the flat plane of her navel which, in time, would swell and grow heavy with their baby. _Their child._

He exhaled a breath which sounded half bred with a laugh nearly, before his eyes snapped back up to hers, seeing she was smiling.

“A Baby?”

He asks with a smile and a look of such joy on his face, that she wanted to bank, and keep forever. For it truly was a thing of unimaginable beauty.

“No. _A goat_ …”

She japed in a silly manner.

“Of course _a baby.._ ”

She smiles across at him.

He pulls her close then, and gives her a such a hard kiss, she has trouble standing when he pulls back. His hand still trapped between them. Stroking lovingly over the flat plane of her middle.

“ _Our baby_..”

He smiles gratefully, his mouth not a centimetre from hers.

“We’ll have the little _pitter patter_ of tiny Kenworthy feet running around this big house after all.”

She smiles gladly. After fearing for a _long_ time that it would _never_ happen.

He smiles, cupping her body close to him, one hand across her shoulders, the other pulling her waist in the press her body into him. Looking across to his wife, and now, to the mother of his child, as if he had never seen something _quite so wonderful_ in all his life.

“Is it _healthy?_ Is there, what about, what- Did Doctor Parsons _say? We’ll_ get you another physician right away. I’ll write first thing tomorrow…” He promises in a mad gabble.

“As far as I'm aware I only need _one_ doctor."

"Don't argue with me, _Mama_ Kenworthy..." He smiles.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Laughing. 

"How is it?" He asks urgently. 

"It’s _fine._ It’s _small_ now, but _of course_ it will grow. At the moment it is barely a ball of cells and a faint heartbeat…”

“ _I’ve never been so happy._ Never known happiness so potent as this, Save for the day I put _that ring_ on your finger and named you _mine._.”

Thomas smiled in a beautifully low and passionate voice.

“Well. Come nine months down the line, and you’ll regret that statement. I hear pregnancy can be a _trial_ for a marriage.” She explains.

“Not for _our marriage_..” He confirms, shaking his head and smiling like a loon. Cupping her close. 

“ _Never for our marriage,_ Elizabeth.” He pledges.

“I will personally wait on you _hand and foot_. And do whatever on this _gods earth_ I can do to make you happy and comfortable. Even in labour when you will most likely wish to _kill me_ with your bare hands…” He offers.

She smiled.

“Well. I have the rest of our lives to get back at you for that. Believe me when I say, I _will_ get even.” She winks playfully.

He smiles wider, amazed by this woman.

“I _adore and worship_ the ground you walk on, Elizabeth Kenworthy.” He smiles, pressing a kiss to her lips.

When he pulled back, he dropped carefully to his knees, bending down into a crouch. His hands linked across the back of his wife's waist. One hand slid into his hair, as she watched him, looking down as he pressed a gentle, long and slow kiss to her navel. Brushing his lips into the fabric of her dress. Loving the feel of the warm skin of his delectably wonderful wife under his hands as he felt across her.

“..And I adore you too. You _wonderful little thing,_ you.” He whispers.

“I swear to you now, I will be the _best_ Father to you that I am capable of being. I am aman of my word. And I promise you this with all my heart."

He assures to the life which was currently developing her stomach.

Elizabeth had many comments circling in her head, but she didn’t dare ruin this precious moment for him. This was private, and special to him. A moment between a man and his baby. She stroked her hand to comb through the silk of his inky coloured hair. Watching as he came to a stand once more, towering over her again like he always did. He smiled down at her. Before he just idly looked over her shoulder, flickering his eyes across the front drive.

Elizabeth slowly watched the smile drain from his face.

She frowned. 

He looked as if he had seen a _ghost_. His eyes which had previously been full of joy and merriment, hardened. His mouth went to a stony line, fuelled by anger and _, fear_. And anything that made her lofty, powerfully muscled, six foot four husband look _scared_ , was something she needed to be _very afraid_ of. His hand viced into her side, and she slowly turned round.

As soon as she twisted her head about. She wished that she _hadn’t._

Someone horribly familiar to the both of them was now stood, not metres away, on the lawn. Sneering across at them both. And he had a small pistol viced in his hand.

It appears Marcus Burke was back for his revenge.

He looked _terrible_. It seemed so long ago now, some far off day, Elizabeth thought, when he had been that polished and handsome rich bachelor in London when he had begun to court her. His hair had been rakishly long, and his face always clean shaven. His dress impeccable, and he had then looked suited to society’s clutches. But now. He didn’t look worthy to grace so much as a low life _tavern,_ or a _barnyard, or ditch even_. He wore a tattered black coat, frayed and stained with dust. With a jacket and breeches that were not tailored for his body. They hung loose, and we splattered with mud and grime. His brown leather shoes were battered and falling to pieces.

But his face, she had never seen such simmering rage across a man's features. His eyes were as she remembered them. Dark, and hooded. And the way they blazed hatred at her made her blood turn to prickles of stabbing ice flooding through her body. His lips were pulled into a hard sneer. He was unshaven, and had a flat cap pulled low down over his face, making his upper face nothing more than a shadowed brim, of which the suns light only made itself known In the dark black space, an orange glint flashing out from where each of his eyes sat. reflecting the sunlight back at them from the dark chasms of his malicious orbs. But down the side of his right eye, there sat a huge, red raw, scrawled mark of a brutal looking _scar_ that _had not_ been there before. Clearly his life as a criminal vigilante had not shaped up to be a _painless_ one.

“Evening, Kenworthy’s.”

He spat at the both of them. Fiddling with the gun in his hand.

But Elizabeth and Thomas were both so frozen by fear, and an odd mix of rage, that they couldn’t move.

“Marcus..” Elizabeth begins.

He sneered wider at that.

“I’m _so touched_ you managed to remember my name, what with all your lofty ranks, I didn’t think _you’d bother_ , your Ladyship...” He snarls.

“As if I could _be so lucky_ as to forget the likes of, _you. Burke_ ”

Elizabeth growls lowly at him.

He chuckled a little to that.

“I’m flattered to have made such a _memorable_ impression on you.” Burke grinned darkly.

“You tried to, _rape,_ my wife, Burke. That’s not the kind of thing a woman, or her husband easily _forgets,_ nor _forgives_ …”

Thomas roared gently to the man. His hand was clenched onto Elizabeth’s side. He had never known such a fierce protectiveness like this pound through his body so hard, it nearly hurt. The way he was so curled up and every muscle clenched his body was _screaming_ in pain at him.

The fact that she was now carrying _his child_ , and was being accosted by a madman with a gun. Made him know he’d give his _damn life_ to protect the both of them should he need to. It made his rage all that more _potent_. No one should try and lay violence upon his wife, who carried his unborn child. Because he would slaughter them without even such much as the courtesy of a forethought.

“You _stole her_. from _me._ You took away by chance I had of a happy life with her. And how to I get rewarded? I get chased out of the country by every man and his _sodding dog_. And my face slashed open in odes to a shoddy attempt in repayment at a gambling debt of taking my _life_.”

He explains, pulling off the cap, chucking it away, to show them both the long angry, red puckering scar that twisted and tugged all down the side of his face. From forehead, to chin. Elizabeth gulped at seeing that. The wound still glistened and shone, enough to show her it hadn’t healed, and that it was recent. Recent enough still to be _agonising_ him.

“That was no-one’s fault but _your own_.” Thomas snaps.

“And I didn’t steal you from being able to _love_ her. I took her away from a man like you, who would surely _abuse_ her, and treat her as no more than a _bank_ to sate your black desires in life while you continued to bed every whore in London…” Thomas bit out.

“ _LOOK AT ME!_ ” He roared.

“You made me into a _monster_.” He snarls.

“You were a monster _long before_ Thomas, Or I, had _anything_ to do with you.” Elizabeth spat at him.

Thomas twisted slightly, trying to coerce her to get behind him. To shield her body from him. As he instantly growled and raised the gun, pointing it _directly_ at Elizabeth. His arm extended straight towards her. She exhaled a shaky rasping breath as he did. Her body _jolted_. One little squeeze of that trigger, and she’d be _shot_.

Thomas’s rage was making his head pound.

“Move again, _Duke_ , and I’ll _ventilate your head_ …” Burke promises.

Thomas went still. Depsite that the anger was bubbling away inside of him, was anything _but_ static. His blood was hot, and his anger palpable. Elizabeth could feel her husband _shaking with rage_  behind her.

“Now tell me. Where would be best to aim? I’ve got _more than enough_ bullets to go around.”

He mocked. Waving the gun high, pointed at her head. Before he lowered it, Settling low, pointed to her _tummy_.

“I couldn’t help but overhear congratulations are in order also. You’ve managed to _sire_ a _little brat_ then. Have you Kenworthy? Consider this my premature _christening_ gift..”

Burke snarled as he pulled the trigger. Elizabeth heard the shot, and then another right after. Cracking, splitting and shattering the air around them.

She felt her body jolt, as a shudder of shock pounded through her. She isn’t sure she screamed. She just felt her body being torn apart. But she did feel Thomas thrown away from behind her, plummeting back, falling backwards off the cart, and onto his back on the gravel below. That was when she saw she had been shoved aside. Thomas had pulled her aside, and thrown _his_ body into the line of fire in front of her. Her body wracked with pain and fear when she realised.

_The bullet had hit him, not her._

_He threw himself into the path of two bullet for her._

She looked across, spinning back to see Burke sneering, with smoke curling up into the air from the gun. Before she turned and saw her husband, led on the ground, prostrate in the dust and dirt.

_And she could see the blood leaking through his white shirt._

She leapt down, tripping as she stumbled over to him, throwing her body to lean over him. Her eyes were wide and full of fear. She was sobbing and calling his name, unawares, as she could hear nothing but her heart thudding in her ears, her blood gonging in her ears.

“T-Thomas!”

She shouted, cupping his pale jaw in her hand, seeing the blossoming red stain of his blood slowly spread across his shirt. Soaking into the light coloured waistcoat. As his other hand, bloodied and dripping crimson red, was braced over his chest, touching to his torso where the bullet had hit him. The slow pool that was dripping off his left thigh also told her he had taken _both_ bullets.

She watched, as he swallowed, clutching onto her tight, his face bloodless and aghast, he squirmed and grunted in pain. Burying his face into her body, panting in pain, and gritting his teeth through it. His pain soaked blue eyes looking up to find hers. She didn’t even care that she had his blood soaking into her dress, she took the side of his planed face into her hand, stroking his face lovingly as his eyes finally met hers. Touching her forehead to his. It was tearing her heart apart in fear, plucking it to bits, seeing him look so _small, and scared._ Baring his teeth down through the pain. Both in his leg, and his shoulder.

“E- _Eli-Liz_ -zabeth…”

He rasps in a pant. Blinking rapidly up at her.

“ _It’s okay, Thomas_. It’s going to be _ok. We’re_ going to be ok. _I’m-I_..” She choked on her own tears.

“I-I’m going to _get help_. I’ll help you, You’ll _be fine_ you’ll see. You’ll be fine _.. I swear.”_

She gabbles in hysteria. Where her hand had pressed against his wound, and then to his face, she sees she leaves a streak of blood across his pale cheek. Feeling her dress cling to her warm and wet where blood soaked her shoulder and trailed down her sleeves. She acts, she tears the blue shawl off her, and presses it down onto where the bullet hit him in the chest. Keeping the pressure on him.

She notices her husbands eyes flicker over his shoulder. Before he squirms, trying weakly to snatch her close. Murmering little cries and pleas of _‘no’_ and ‘ _please, no’_ in a weak way, which made her heart sink in pain as even with his wounds, he still fought with his shallow breaths to protect his wife.

Before she can ascertain why. She hears the gravel crunch behind her, and despite the fact Thomas twisted his body onto one side, ignoring the agony which tore his limbs apart, and slung an arm tight across his wife, as best as he could trying to keep her close to him, before the agony was too much. Burke marches over, and rips her away from him.

She tries to cling to him, _truly she does._ But the hysteria and the fear make her surprisingly _weak_. Thomas groaned and grunts, calling as loud as he could, begging for him to leave her alone.

She is wrenched to come to a stand. Grabbed away from her wounded husband, and come to a stand, pressed with her back moulded into Burke’s chest. His arm folded across her neck, choking her air supply. Her hands clawed at his throat, and Thomas could only watch, hunched over on his side, led _helpless_ , in incredible amounts of pain, as Burke pointed the gun now, directly at his wifes forehead. Elizabeth wriggled, fought and squirmed against him.

“Let go of me, _please_. Get off me! If he doesn’t get help soon, _he’ll die!”_

She sobbed, tears dripping from her eyes.

Thomas’s watery eyes met hers. And they shared a look. A look of fear, and what's worse, she saw a glimmer of acceptance flash across his eyes.

Burke glared down at the bleeding man on the floor. Hunched over, trying and failing to reach out for his wife.

“No less than deserves, dying like the _coward_ he is, in the _dirt_.” Burke snarled.

“He’s a hundred times more of a man than you’ll _ever be_!” She sobs in a snarl.

Thomas met his eyes, and never before had he so wished to do a man as much harm as the animal stood before him. Wishing he possessed the strength to tear the snivelling bastards spine out. Before new waves of pain rolled up through his body. Making him grunt and groan in agony. A few more tears dripped from her eyes at that, as she lurched forwards.

“ _Let me help him_. Please. _Don’t let him die_ …”

She sobs, her voice resolute and strong as she jerks and pulls, trying to get away.

“Then by all means, if he’s at deaths door, why don’t I send you to _join him..”_

Burke snarled, and she finds herself inelegantly thrown to the gravel, after striking the gun across her head, she winces at the pain her mouth open in a soundless gasp, feeling her head swim, and a burst of blood trickle down her forehead. Rolling to the ground, thudding with her arms curled protectively around her stomach as she lands, loose wisps of her hair tangling in the dirt around them.

Tumbling to a stop, Thomas scrambled across to her, groaning as he leans over, as she was thrown on her front, he strokes her hair back from her face as he cups it in his hand, despite the fact that it made his arm shriek in galaxies and worlds of pain. He looked deep into her eyes, trying his best to look strong and brave for her, despite the fact he was almost wanting to sob as he clutched her to his chest.

There was _no hope_ for them now. Everyone else was off through Chatsworth woods, miles away across the property. And the kitchens where most the servants were, were far enough way not to hear the shots.

Burke stood looming over them.

“All those gossip papers in London used to marvel at how the two of you were alike Romeo and Juliet, how _ironic_ , considering how you’re now both destined to the same fate. Dying in each others arms..”

He speaks as he raises the gun again. Pointing it to Elizabeth’s curled back.

Thomas cooed softly to her all the while, though through his panting and his words, his chest was spasming in agony. But he soldiered on through his words softly hushing them to her.

“Don’t listen to him. Elizabeth.. k-keep looking at me. Just look at-t me.W-we’ll be _alright_.”

He promises strongly, watching as she let a couple of silent tears roll down her cheeks.

“I love you..”

He coos into her ear, and she replies the same, as he pulls her into his chest, tucking her face away as he meets the eyes of her executioner, sneering behind them.

Thomas grit his teeth. Elizabeth closed her eyes, murmering ‘I love you’ into his bleeding shoulder. Waiting for the undoubtable sting of a bullet.

And that was roughly the point in which they heard scattered footprints tearing across the drive.

Elizabeth spins about to see Burke yell in agony as a flash of tawny, rusty brown fur snarls and tears at his calves. And she grins wide in seeing both Effie and Casper savagely bite and tear into the mans legs. Growling and snapping at him, as he tried helplessly, to kick them away. She watched with glee as she saw his shins leak blood from where their fangs ripped into his flesh. _Which was no less than he deserved._

They peered across the corner of the house to see Edith, and Judith stood cowering at the bloody scene before them Thomas led on the floor, wounded and pale, covered in blood. As was Elizabeth by his side, and a horrible looking man with a gun in his hands, who then savagely kicked one of the dogs, who let out a successive shrieking whimper.

Burke snarled seeing Judith and Eodht stood, open mouthed at him, and in his anger he raised the gun. Elizabeth bolted from her husband, crawling to try and stand before he did them any harm. Tearing at his legs with her bare, bloodied, and grazed hands from where she fall. She was screaming, and wrenching at the man, _anything,_ to get him from pointing the gun at her beloved nieces.

But, it becomes painfully apparent, that she needn’t have bothered. A flash of bottle green lumbers onto the scene, and she hears the smack of fist on flesh, as she sees Reverend Everett, spread his arms wide, his body directly between them, inching the girls backwards behind him, shielding them from harm with a look of such rage on his face, his eyes were thunder and Elizabeth swore if he could, he would have raised haunches alike those of his animals as he glared hell fury at the man who held the gun.

She was actually scared to see such fury and rage on his usually genial face.

“ _On my life_ , you won’t lay _a hand_ on them. You’ll have to go through _me_ first”

Hugh growls. As Edith clutched onto his coat shoulder in fear, and Judith hugged herself behind his leg, sobbing into him as he dropped down one hand to cradle the back of her blonde hair to comfort and reassure her.

Burke recoiled from where Hugh had struck him. Effie and Casper cowered away, one dog nursing a wounded paw, as they circled their master, chomping at the bit to attack Burke once again. And Elizabeth pants a pleased smile on seeing him protect them so viciously, with his own body. Burke bolted forwards, but any attempts at movement which he made was rudely interrupted, as Elizabeth saw a figure loom behind him, arms holding aloft something in the air behind them.

She smiled. Burke truly was under attack now.

Especially so as Iris gave the resounding final nail in the coffin in attacking him. He twisted about to face her as he heard her cry.

“ _No one harms my family!_ ”

She snarls in a thin, reedy voice full of anger.

Burke flopped the floor, out stone cold, after Elizabeth watched her sister in law, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, nor a mouse, nor any other barnyard animal. Struck the man, hard, across the back of the head with a gardening spade. They all watched with glee as the man dropped like a deadweight, and lay, unmoving on the dusty gravel. Iris panted as she kicked the gun shyly away, out of his hands reach. Unable to believe what she had done.

“I can’t believe _I did that_. It was so _violent_ …” She gasps in wonderment at her actions. Looking a little sick and pale. 

Thomas gave a wheezy chuckle, and Elizabeth leaned back over him, tending to him again.

“Nice work, Irie..” He gasps.

Elizabeth nearly wanted to throw herself to his chest and sob in relief _. He may have been seconds away from death, and still his wit was as sharp as ever._

“Thomas. We’ll _get you inside_ , _someone, anyone, fetch help!”_

 Elizabeth cries in a broken sob. She hears gravel crunch behind her, and she watches as Hugh comes to a crouch by her side, ripping off his restrictive jacket, and helping her try to get Thomas up onto his feet. They looped both his arms across them and slowly eased him onto his feet.

“Judith…”

Hugh calls. The little tot bounded over, her face teary and her lip wobbling as she looked at the Reverend.

“You remember about how we were talking about running, _don’t you?_ And how I said you run like the _wind?”_ Hugh asked her.

Judith bravely nodded.

“You’ve been a _very brave_ girl, Judith. _So very brave._ But I need you to be even braver for me now. Your Uncle Thomas is badly hurt. Amd I need you to _run and run as fast_ as you can, like _the wind_ , to go and see to it that someone in the kitchens fetches a doctor. And don’t give up until one is on the way… as _quickly_ as you can!”

Hugh urged gently to her. Knowing she would fulfill that to the very best of her stubborn and resolute five year old abilities. She nodded, before she tore herself away as fast as her little legs would carry her.

Thomas grunted as he was stood onto his feet, crying aloud in agony as the wound in his left thigh shot a crippling agonizing shudder through his leg. He could barely stand, and Elizabeth focused on stemming the blood leaking from his chest. They made their way very gently, step by tiny step across to the door.

They had just gotten across the the door and under the grand archway, when Wilkin’s and Elsie appeared, out of breath and shocked, having run all the way here from the kitchens as Judith’s insistence.

“We’ve sent for a doctor.”

Wilkin’s spoke, aghast at the sight of his master, dripping blood, who had been unharmed and fine last he saw. He took Elizabeth's place under the Duke’s shoulder as they ferried him away up the stairs.

“What happened?” The Butler dared to ask.

“A madman shot him, we need the police too. To come and throw _that animal_ in prison.”

Hugh snapped. Though he had a feeling the man was out cold, and he had no doubt that Effie and Casper would circle him, watching his deadweight body like a hawk.

Elizabeth took advantage of this moment, to turn to her sister in law, whose hands were trembling, and Even though hers were drenched in Thomas’s blood. She squeezed Iris’s hands close.

“Are you alright?” She asks.

Iris looked across to her sister in law then. Smiling in gentle wonder at the woman. The woman whose husband had just been shot, _twice_ , and who had a bleeding head, was _covered_ in his blood. Streaked all across her gown and her face. Yet _she still_ took the careful consideration to care about everyone else about her.

Iris’s hands clutched Elizabeth’s back tightly. She nodded firmly.

“I’m fine, Elizabeth..” She smiles comfortingly.

“I don’t want to loose him.” She cries suddenly. Looking scared.

Iris pulled her close, hugging her tight.

“He’s _far too stubborn_ to let you lose him.” Iris offered in a firm tone, with a gentle smile.

“I’m _with child_ Iris. And I _so badly want_ my baby to have his or her father…” She cried. chin wobbling.

Iris’s eyes glowed warmly with love on hearing that confession.

“You tell him that when he wakes up.” She pressed.

“You _won’t_ lose him Elizabeth. _Not now, not ever_.” She pledges.

Elizabeth nodded shakily.

The two women tore away after the gaggle of men. Storming through the house. The immediate danger, for now, had gone. All that remained was to see if Thomas would be _alright_ at the end of it all.

 

~

 


	63. Loving Word's, Bedrest, and One armed Men...

 

~

 

 

Much later, as evening drew close, and the crisis passed. This saw Elizabeth, Hugh, Edith and Iris sat slumped onto the chairs, outside in the hallway opposite the Duke and Duchess's bedchamber. Elizabeth sat biting her lip, her back ramrod straight, pulled to attention, counting by every second of awful silence that ticked by on the grandfather clock as she listened to the hush of silence that had fallen over the house. Even the weather outside seemed to go still, as if it were holding it’s breath. Just like she was. No branch from a tree brushed the house, and no gale of wind rapped at the roof tiles. It was still, and awaiting. Judith had been sent to bed by Nanny Lyon’s, with a cup of hot milk and a sweet story to usher her into sleep. Edith refused to go when Iris said she should. That steely glint of determination in her eyes, flared a bright silver as she disobeyed her mother’s wishes. As it was, Edith crossed to her Aunt after that, and held her hand tight. Clutching onto it, hard, inaudibly letting her know that everything would be alright. Elizabeth with a small smile then remarked to her niece, that she had her Uncle’s stubbornness and fortitude. And they had gone back into silence once more.

After the doctor had been sent for, a surgeon from Castleton, The Policemen arrived. And Inspector Riswell, the stout, moustached, mutton chopped man he was, ushered the still groggy form of Marcus Burke into the back of the police carriage clapped in irons, and assured Elizabeth he’d be locked up _for good_. There were wanted posters up for this man’s head. He was wanted by nearly every gambling lord and loan shark from here to London. The Inspector said he was going behind bars for the _rest of his miserable_ life. Especially as he had assaulted, with witnesses, a landed gentleman of high rank and significant power. Elizabeth had snarled they insisted on pressing full charges against him. And she had not torn her glare away from the carriage until it disappeared away down the end of their drive.

Elizabeth’s eyes switched to the bedroom door, where she could now hear footsteps walk around the bed, attending to her husband, as they had been for the previous hour now. She could hear Thomas’s groans of pain every now and again. Each time of which caused a tear to drip down her cheeks. And then Iris or Edith would rub her shoulder, or pat her hand comfortingly. She heard another long groan, and as the tears fell, this time, she found that Hugh was smoothing out a small wrinkled square of cloth on his thigh as he sat, before he handed it to her. She smiled, thanking him, taking the clean but rumpled handkerchief he offered to her. Iris gave him a grateful look. Which she had been doing ever since Hugh had put his own body between a violent man, and her two daughters. He had insisted on staying to make sure they were all alright. Effie and Casper were with them also. Effie had been savagely kicked by Burke, and now bore a bandage wrapped around her front injured paw. Casper sat, with his chin now nudged to slope onto Elizabeth’s knee. Looking up at her with big fond eyes, pleading for her to be cheery once again. She smiled down at the dog after she dried her eyes. She lovingly stroked one of his floppy, velveteen ears.

The sound of the bedroom door clicking open, disjoints everyone, and subsequently, Elizabeth bolts to her feet quicker than she has ever moved in her life. To see the slightly dishevelled form of Doctor Stanhope, the best surgeon in all of Derbyshire, stood in the frame, looking a little weary and sombre.

Elizabeth watched him with big wide, watery blue eyes pleading with him not to confirm her worst nightmare.

He gave her a soothing smile.

“He’s lost a lot of blood, Milady. He is a little weakened in his state. But as it was, the leg wound was just a clean through flesh wound from the bullet. And the bullet wound to his shoulder will heal in time with no problems or complications, providing it is kept clean . I was able to retrieve all of the shrapnel from the wound. He should be right as rain in a couple of weeks. He just needs sufficient time to rest and patch himself up accordingly. No strenuous activities, and no overexertion. He should stay indoors, and try to keep as inactive as his body allows for the wounds to heal properly. The worst thing he could do is get up too soon, and burst his stitches.” Stanhope smiled. His excellently large silver eyebrows bristling with movement, and his eyes behind his spectacles, shone bright, pleased to report that he would live. Minus the cuts and scrapes, Thomas Kenworthy would soldier on to see another day.

“Oh, _thank you_. Doctor Stanhope. Thank you _so much_ \- I-I can’t even begin to..” Elizabeth smiled, shutting her eyes as more tears burst down her cheeks. Her words trailing off.

He reached over, and his freshly washed hands gripped her own reassuringly.

“He is a stubborn man. Milady. Strong as an _Ox_. Quite unlike any constitution I have ever seen in a man before. He would _not be parted_ from you so lightly from something as mild as a couple of bullet wounds. And he’s been asking for you, plaguing me of you, for the past hour. He insists I am to see to your head wound.” He added. Looking over the small cut on her forehead. It was true, her head still seemed a little snowed under with pain, but she pushed past it.

“I am fine. _Thankyou_. I would just _very much_ like to see my Husband.” She smiled.

“I _daren’t_ prevent you. Though he is weak, I’d hate to stand in _that_ man’s way..” He smiled nicely, opening the door and holding it for her, showing to her the bed, and the man in it, inside the room.

Elizabeth smiled, thanking him profusely once more, before she slid past him, The Doctor pulled the door shut behind her as she walked in. Striding slowly across to the side of the bed. Seeing the topless figure of her husband smiling across to her, the covers pulled up to his middle, . His hair was brushed back from his dewy forehead. And across one shoulder he was thoroughly bandaged around his torso, the white strips of cloth standing out against his milky skin, linked around his left shoulder. His left arm in a sling, which was knotted about his neck, folded into his chest. The other led by his side. She could see a small patch of blood leaking through, standing stark against the snowy bed sheets and his paleness. His blue eyes glittered across to her, though hooded, she had never seen them look so vibrant. On his lips he wore that small dreamy smile reserved for her, and her alone.

She knew she must have looked quite _a sight_ , to his eyes. She was still dressed in the gown she wore earlier, which was smeared with drying rusty patches of his blood. The only thing she had done, was splash water across her face, to scrub away the blood from her wound, and the other smudges of it on her face, and hands. Her arranged hair style had long since drooped and defied its rule in pins, Straggling down her neck and past her ears in long red coils. But then he smiled wider as he saw her. And she felt almost as if she was the most stunning _woman alive_ , to him. Despite being dressed in a bloodied gown, with a cut marring her beautiful, unblemished ivory forehead, and the fact she had been put through the ordeal of her life, she had suddenly never known to be happier than right at this moment, just knowing he was going to be fine.

She came to ease gently down by his side, slowly lowering herself down onto the mattress. Smiling across at him. His right hand reached over to clasp her own. And he held it tight. She watched the amber fires light glint of the sculpted muscles of his torso as he breathed gently. Just drinking in the sight of his tired wife, and the mother of his yet unborn child.

“I _don’t think_ he was a very _adept_ shot..” Thomas moaned in a small, quiet gasp.

She couldn’t help it. She burst into tears, they welled up, and then the banks burst sobbing. She clapped a hand across her mouth, before she buried herself into his un-hurt side, crying because she had been scared, because she almost lost him. And because she never wanted to experience this again. She stroked her hand down the back of his head as she pressed numerous slow kisses to his forehead, to his cheeks and his lips. He smiled up at her, a couple of her tears raining down onto his face, as his uninjured right arm stroked up her shoulderblades, soothing her. All the while she kissed, she kept sobbing words.

“I’m _sorry_ … I’m _so sorry_. _I love you_.”

She sobbed. Stroking down his face as she continued. Kissing him as if she would never stop.

“I thought I was going to _lose_ you. Thomas. _I can’t live without you_. Don’t let me go through _that ever again_ …” She weeps.

She pulls back and looks deep into his eyes, with his unshaven cheek under her hand as he took her wrist, pulled it close, and kissed it.

“You’re _so stupid_ to do that, my love, _you scared me to death_. _Why_ did you do it?” She rambles.

Thomas smiled.

“I had _two_ very good, upstanding _reasons_.”

He promises. Swiping his thumb across her hand after he had kissed it. Before he reached down to touch to her middle.

She titled her head, choking back a loving sob as she kissed his hand. Two hot tears splashing down onto his skin not long after.

“The first, because I couldn’t let that man take away the very person who is my _entire life_. My whole existence. Nor could I let him harm our expected little Kenworthy to come. The second, because, to me, you are _irreplaceable._ And I am not. You are the _only wife_ I’ve got and ever will have. You are _everything_ to me, Elizabeth. My world. And I will love you until I draw _my last_ breath, and long afterwards.” He rasps up to her.

She tucks her head close to his, and presses a passionate kiss to his lips.

“My love, You are _not replaceable_ , to me…”

“I am if you give birth my male heir.” He promises.

“ _Shush._ Don’t be stupid. _I need you_. Thomas. Because come next February, I _do not_ want to be outnumbered by our child.” She smiles

“ _You won’t be_.” He promises her.

“Apparently, I shall live. Though with a few more _scars_ to boot.” He smiles.

“ _I don’t care_ about scars. To me, Thomas, you are _perfec_ t. Any husband of mine who throws himself in front of two bullets for me, I don’t care if he has boils, warts and a hunchback. I will love him _regardless_.” She promises.

He chuckles, his chest lurching with the laugh half bred with a gush of air.

“I’ll be sure to develop a hunch in my old age just to test those words…” He japes.

She smiles.

“The doctor said you coped remarkably well with the pain…” She pointed out.

“Unfortunately. Not the _first_ time I’ve had bullets dug _out of me_ …” He answers back.

“This time I was relieved to have some laudanum to numb the pain. Back in the Crimea we only had wood to bite down on, and a diluted shot of morphine to counter it..” He smiled groggily.

“Are you hungry? Or thirsty? There is some water here…Or I can go and fetch Ethel if you would like to _eat something_ , I’m sure she’d-”

She smiles, motioning to the side. Starting to move off, before he grabs her hand, and reels her closer. Stopping her words short. Pulling her back to the bed with him.

“Don’t _nurse_ me. For now, Just _love_ me, wife..”

He smiles, tugging her down to curl up into his side.

She presses her hand flat to his dewy chest. Hugging her as best as he could with one arm. She could hear his heart slowly thump under his skin in his chest. And she smiled.

“We do live a _colourful life? don’t we_ …”

He remarked drily. Because their marriage and before it had not been without a few theatricality's here and there.

“I fear it will be a _lot less_ dramatic now Burke is behind bars…” Elizabeth told.

“And may he _rot there,_ forevermore..” Thomas growls, pressing a kiss into her coppery coloured hair.

“Well. You’re on bed rest. I’m with child. I foresee a few _lazy_ weeks about Chatsworth for you and me, Milord…” She smiles.

He chuckles.

“Bad for the love life, is a bullet wound inflicted shoulder.” Thomas growled in a lusty tone. Blue eyes lusting into her own.

“ _None_ of that..”

Elizabeth told off, looking at him with that stern stare she’d have to master, now she would soon be a mother.

Thomas let his head drop back on his pillow. Adoring the quiet moment he was having with his wife and his baby. Whom, he noted, he’d happily go to hell and back, to save. And one thing rung in his head.

_He'd get her making love with him again, eventually, when he had healed a bit better..._

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone still hate me now? Let me know.


	64. Tedium, Steady Steps, and Baby Names...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short, and a little cute, more to come soon....

 

 

~ A Invalid Duke/Giant Man Childs’s Bedchamber, Three Days Later ~

 

 

 

“ _Johnathan?_ ” Elizabeth asked.

“How very _biblical.”_

Came the response from her husband.

 _“Richard?_ ”

“My fathers name. Alright then, mmm. _Lucas?_ ”

Was her retorted enquiry.

“ _Hmm_.” He paused.

“Timothy.” He offered.

She tilted her head.

“I prefer Alex. Alexander…” She smiled

“How Russian.” Thomas commented, smiling drily.

“And I fear I must say we are completely forgetting that it _could_ be a _girl_ , Mi’lord.”

Elizabeth smiled gently. Scribbling names down in a pocket book, as her husband’s massive hand wandered to stroke soothingly down her belly.

In just _five_ more weeks, the doctor had told her to expect feeling more tired all throughout the day, that her breasts may get tender and larger, and she could expect to feel a little nauseas in the mornings, and needing to relieve herself more often than normal. All the while her baby would start growing bigger and bigger with each day. By the time of week 7 she’d have a bulge that she wouldn’t be able to conceal any longer, at this point, they had learned that the baby would roughly be the size of a lemon. And then she’d have to forgo wearing corsets and bustles in her skirts. Frippery and propriety took a back seat when pregnancy was announced.

And she was still debating heatedly with her husband over whether or not she should be confined when she hit her 3rd month. He was perfectly insistent that _she should_ be on bed rest for the _entire time,_ and she was _really insisting not to be._ She argued she was a _human being, not a nesting hen_. He was just being stupidly protective, she had told him.

He had rolled his eyes and moodily muttered something about tenacious mothers. Saying she wasn’t supposed to be quite so _assiduous_ until the baby arrived.

Besides, he was just lightheartedly biccering with her for a little bit of amusement. He himself had been rested abed since the incident that happened three days previous. Being shot both in the shoulder and the thigh tended to _slow_ a man down a _little_. The pain was managable now. He had been on regular doses of laudanum for a while, then tiny little sips had turned to none now. And he was _furiously_ insisting he was healed enough to move from being incarcerated in the same four walls of his bed chamber. He was getting cabin fever, _proverbially climbing the wall_ s out of his sheer boredom.

His arm was still in a sling. And he insisted on dressing each day, the formality of his clothes domineered by his sling. He wore no cravat about his neck. Just his usual white cotton shirt, no waistcoat as they had tried to wrangle one on, but both him and his wife proved it looked a tad ridiculous as his injured left arm was tucked away with no arm to loop through the hole of it. He had pulled on his dressing gown for a bit more warmth. The long blue cloth flapping at his sides. He had wriggled his legs into black breeches with his wife's assistance that morning. His feet were bare for now as he led atop the rumpled bed covers. But he was gazing longingly at where his black boots stood from across the room. He was longing, ardently, to get out of this damn room. He had been cooped up for absolute _centuries_ , it felt like. With numerous female relatives for company.

Ophelia even rose to the occasion, and read him a few excerpts from war and peace until he fell asleep from pure tedium. Iris had visited, as had Edith and Judith. Judith took _absolutely_ no mind to how injured he was. It was but one morning after his injury, and she had marched into the room, doggedly climbing onto his lap, plonking herself down on him, and _forcing_ him to read her a few chapters of Beauty and the Beast. His health had not been a commandeering factor to her. Elizabeth had _sniggered so_ at that. 

Edith had been a little more genteel, she had sat and read through Keats with him. His days seemed riddled with sections of time with various family members, and atleast _four_ good meals to toughen him up. With Ethel sending up turkey neck soup to be shoved down his throat around the clock. Matter of fact, the only time he had risen from the bed fully for longer than five minutes – other than to stagger to relieve himself – was when the housemaid, Agnes, came up to help Elizabeth change the bed linens. And even then, she wrangled his body onto the chaise in their room, and told him not to move on pain of death.

Elizabeth looked _very pretty_ today, he couldn’t help but notice. Mind, she looked pretty _every day._ She was a gorgeous vision every waking minute of her life to him. But she was even _more so_ , especially when he _couldn’t_ ravish her. She had to look almost twice as tempting to him than usual, he fancied. He wanted what he couldn't have. And it was _she_ whom had pointed that out to him.

But even _sans both injuries_ , he insisted she still looked lovely, she ignored him, and pressed her insistence that he spend all day in bed. Thomas dirtily asked if that meant he got to spend all day _inside of her at the same time_. He had professed this little dirty thought as they had taken breakfast that morning. And she blushed _so hard_ , she nearly sprayed and expelled her mouthful of tea all over the bed.

She as dressed today in a sweet little gown, it was a simple burgundy red, with a white Belgian lace trimmed to the scooping neckline, and the sleeves. She wore no jewellery, and her hair was pulled messily into an arrangement that still looked elegant. Thomas fancied his wife could make a _sackcloth look elegant_ \- should she ever feel the need too. But for now, he was happy she settled on wearing gowns like all normal ladies.

As it was, it was roughly noon now. And Thomas decided – _in his own head_ – that he needed to get out of this room before he went barmy. Him and Elizabeth were abed, whiling away some time, Currently they were bickering back and forth between baby names. Though Thomas had already settled on a little nickname for the little Kenworthy to be which was safely nestled inside his wife. She had attended _another_ physician from Castleton. Who had talked her through the process of pregnancy, and the various trimesters of it all. She had explained at what point she would start to look a little _heavier,_ adding in that the doctor informed her by seven weeks, the baby would have grown to be the size of a small citrus fruit. _A lemon_ he had said. And Thomas chuckled as she told him that. So now, _by proxy_ , he referred to the little life inside of her, as his _little lemon_.

“I do not care if _our_ little lemon is _a boy_ , _or a girl._ That is _my baby_ in there, and I will love it regardless of sex, when it comes out in nine months. I vow I will love it more than _anything_ I _will ever have._ Excluding _you,_ of course, my love... You and my child shall rank equally in fondness…”

He smiled at her. Whilst shifting his hand to stroke over her still flat middle. He had not stopped doing so ever since he found out the merry news. He did it at night too, even in the recesses of sleep, he reached to fondle his wife close, hugging her, and hugging the place where his _little lemon_ was sleeping too.

“ _Oh,_ I am _so glad_ to hear of it...”

She smiled. Looking over at him with a smile.

He grinned back. Before he tried his hand at subtly suggesting something which would alleviate the raging boredom which was holding him to ransom.

“You know, my love, it’s… It’s such a _nice_ day out, and all…”

He began. Peering longingly out of the window, seeing the birds tweet, the swallows dip in the sky, and he imagines it would be pleasantly warm, too. The flutter of a warm breeze would glide its fingers across his cheeks. He wanted to see the beautiful garden’s of Chatsworth bathed in gentle slopes of sunlight. He wanted to breathe deep the earthy aroma of the emerald grass  into his cabin fevered lungs.

“You’re _not leaving this bed_ whilst there is still breath in my lungs, Thomas …”

Elizabeth chided, grinding out the sentence as she looked down over the pocketbook in her hands.

“ _My love,_ you make me stay here for one more hour, and I will _go barmy!_ Please, before I can feel my brain slowly rot into nuttiness. Please, _please, please,_ let me just, walk down the stairs. Or, go for a stroll to the orangery and back. I can’t look at these same four walls for another minute…” He whined.

Elizabeth looked across to him. Raising one auburn brow at him, arching it in a regarding manner.

“If I sit here for one more afternoon, chugging down turkey neck soup,, and having to listen to Ophelia read me Dostoyevsky until my ears go _blue_ , then you shall very shortly be talking about the _lovely sane_ husband you used to have and love, after _I snap_ and start going _stark raving mad_ ….” He offers in a low voice.

“Dr Stanhope said if you get up too soon, it would be terrible for you to burst your stitches. And I will not be the reason you are in more pain…” She points out.

Thomas, internally leapt and sung with joy. She was softening.

“I will go slowly, _so slowly_ , you’ll see _snails_  move faster than I will. And you have my word I will not go far. But if I have to sit on my right honourable backside or another minute, I am not responsible for the rate at which my brain dribbles out of my ears like soup…” He warns.

Elizabeth sighed. Putting herself in his shoes. If she’d been abed for three days, then she’d been going _stir crazy_ too. She levelled him a hard look.

“You’ll take your cane?” She asked wryly.

He smiled. Snapping up into a sitting position. His body jolted forwards. The giddy realisation that his wish could soon become a reality making him stupidly happy.

“I’ll take my cane.” He promises.

“You will take baby steps all the way?”

She adds, her voice still low and scolding.

“The entire way… teeny tiny steps. _Foetus steps._ ” He assures her.

“You will take my arm as we go along, so you don’t topple over…” She told him.

“Arm. Leg. Head. Body. I’ll take _it all.”_ He smirks.

“ _Thomas_ …” She harassed lowly.

“Yes, _ok. Yes.”_

He hastens to add like a little boy being told off by his mother.

“I will take your arm for the _entirety_ of our route.” He smiles.

“And if you feel light headed, faint, or in agony, for even _a second…”_

She begins. Pointing a reproving finger at him.

“Then I will surrender _instantly._ ” He confirms.

She crossed the room, sighing something under her breath which sounded something suspiciously like _‘god-save-me-from-impetuous-husbands’_ and reached down to get his boots for him. She crossed back to the bed and handed them to him. She helped him tug them on, as he was one armed, and the restrictive leather took a good pull to wrangle them over his ankles. Once she had helped him manoeuvre to the edge of the bed, she helped sit him up, and regarded im with alarm as he wriggled forwards so fast.

“Steady. On.”

She warned slowly.

He looked up at her, blue eyes burning with cheekiness.

“ _I’ve never_ had _that complaint_ from you before.” He purred, waggling his brows.

She gave him a glaring smile.

"I insist you use that cane." She adds. 

He quirked a brow. Cheekily. 

" _On you?_ "

He asks darkly. Looking fairly intrigued by the notion. 

" _To walk_."

She fairly yells. Blushing as red as her hair. 

After coming to her feet again, she went to the door and retrieved the black cane that rested in the umbrella stand. Coming back to her grown husband who was baying like a puppy wanting it’s walk. He actually jiggled, _bobbing,_ with frenzied excitement.

She handed him the cane, and pressed her hand to his chest, as he hauled himself right up onto his feet, without her even offering her hand to him. She clasped both things to his chest as he came to stand once more, towering over her again.

She gave him a stiff look that instantly told him she thought he was moving too fast. And that she wouldn’t stitch him up again if he ripped his wounds open. He groaned a little as he stood, but ultimately the stretch in his legs felt _pleasant. It felt right._

And he happily allowed himself to sway a little _closer_ into his wife's front. His chest crushing to rub up against her soft breasts. And as it was the most sexual contact he’d had for three days, it sent a jolt of electricity to shoot _straight to his groin._ And he made a show of leaning closer into her, swaying further into her soft, rounded, luscious body.

“Sorry. _Lost_ my footing for a moment there…”

He beamed like a wicked wolf. His grin a thing of utterly dark beauty.

She smiled over at him, with a _chiding look_ in her eyes. As she held her hands to his chest, propping him up. Careful not to push his arm up in the sling. Nor clip the tender wound to his shoulder. He stood tall, slouching only a little because of the cane in his right hand. His body rejoicing in the wonderful stretch of being upright for a long while.

“Like I’m going to believe that for a _single second_. Mi’lord. I wasn’t born _yesterday._ ”

She told off sternly, moving to his side, taking his right arm and relieving him of some of his body weight.

“Remember. A snails pace…” She told.

“I remember..”

He smiles, chuckling. Stabbing the cane into the rug, finding the balance in his unused feet. Wiggling his toes in his boots. His thigh wound flexed a little painfully, but nothing that gave him worry, It was just from where he had moved muscles he hadn’t used in a while.

“Here goes nothing… And. Also my dignity...”

He warned, and shifted his body to ease forwards, groaning as he took his first step. Barely moving forwards by so much as a centimetre.

“Slowly but surely..” Elizabeth repeated.

“At this rate, my darling, I will _slowly but surely_ _almost_ make it to the door by _dinner time…”_

He jokes. Taking another step.

"Well. Don't rush yourself. We've another lot of Turkey neck soup all ready for dinner. Ethel made more _especially_ for you." She smiled. 

Thomas glared at her. 

"I've eaten enough of that _ghastly_ stuff to last a lifetime. As a matter of fact. And the lifetimes of _ten others._ I am an invalid no longer. My love. May I not consume solid, _human_ , food?"

He asks hopefully. Because truthfully. He was dying for food that he could sink his teeth into, and of which _didn't_ come in a _bowl._  

Something hot. He fancied. A rib of beef. Gravy on the side. All the trimmings. With Chester pudding to finish. His favourite. And he'd eat and eat until he physically couldn't force down another mouthful. 

"You'll have to take _that_ up with Ethel..." Elizabeth beamed. 

His face fell. And his shoulders slumped. 

"Turkey neck soup _it is,_ then."

He groaned lowly. And if that didn't speak _volumes_ about their blunt, no nonsense cook. Neither of them knew what _would_. 

“Consider it training for when you and I get old and withered… Tottering about this house like ancient old biddies.” She smiles.

“No need. I feel _impossibly ancient_ already…”

He groaned. Annoyed with his progress which barely out marched a yard. His pain making him slow. What should have once been so easy as rising to his feet, and strolling through his home, had to now be taken as if he were impossibly rickety, and lingering somewhere near the age of eighty

“Well. You do have 6 years on me. You are my senior. I shan’t hold that against you. _Too much_ …”

She smiles. Feeling him stop and turn to her. Giving her a reproaching look coupled with a dry smile and a sigh.

“You must remember to retract _your fangs_ once in a while, dear wife. They’re starting to show.” He bit back in a not so charming banterful way.

“Well. That will not serve me well when the baby comes…” She mocked, smiling across at him.

“You are a force to behold. My Duchess.” He commented drily.

“And well you know if it…” She smiles wide.

“Be a darling and try not to let me tumble headfirst down the stairs to my doom..” He asks.

“ _Oh, now_. I’m a force. Thomas. I don’t dispute that. I grant you, But I’m not a murderer. Besides. Who will look after me when I get so fat with child, I can’t move about anymore?”

She asks, as they round their bedroom doorway and come to the long hall, which turned a corner and led down to the stairs.

“ _Oh_ , So I do have my purposes after all?” He asks.

She chuckles at him.

“You _always_ have..” She smiles in flattery. As she helps him limp steadily along.

“Easy on the praise. I haven’t _ravished_ you in _three days atleast_. I’m liable to _pounce_ upon you at the first sign of your _buttering me_ up..” He smiles, ever so slightly leaning his body into hers as they went gradually along.

“I don’t think your in any position to be _pouncing_ upon _anyone._ ” She comments.

“And if my flattery seeks to make you a little _, restless_ , then I had immediately better refer back to my depreciating you then. Had I not?” she asks.

He grumped.

“Don’t be _cruel and callous_ to your _poor_ injured husband...” He sulks.

She stops, and stokes a hand down his chiselled jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. So his stubble was longer than she had ever seen it. But it only served to make him look all the more roguish and handsome. His eyes glittered, his skin had regained some of its radiant glow, and there no longer lingered some dark grey bags under his eyes, like heavy saddle bags on a horse. He was looking healed. And as handsome and vibrant as she had ever seen him. And she thought that was either due to the rest he had gotten. Or the fact that his vitality was all owed to the discovery of the new life she was helping to grow inside her.

“I promise to keep my fangs well hidden... Especially secreted from the man who took two bullets to save me and my baby.”

She smiles. Closing in on his lips to kiss him sweetly for a long second. He savoured it. Leaning into her and groaning lightly. When she pulled back, leaning back down from where she strayed on her tiptoes to kiss him. Her forehead rested on his, and he grinned down at her.

“I’d do it again in a _heartbeat_ If I had too.” He assures her.

 

~

 

 


	65. ~ A Note From Your Author~

 

 

 

Unfortunately dear readers. The sad news is that I shall be on holiday until Thursday. In Barcelona on an art trip with my college. So that means there shall no updates from me. I am terribly sorry. Thought I had better keep you informed on the matter. But. Silver linings and all that jazz. I have the week after, off. So there shall be a load more coming your way. Thank you for being such devoted and lovely readers.

All the love I possess

Punk

X


	66. Slow Moving Duke's, Pink Parlours and Autocratic Five Year Olds...

 

~ The Pink Parlour ~

~Afternoon Tea ~

~ Afternoon Tea, a Very Good English Custom ~

 

 

Iris, Edith and Judith were merrily taking tea in the Pink Parlour, indulging themselves in a delicate assortment of cakes, and dainty sandwiches with the crusts cut off them. The tea was steeping in the pot, and Iris was reading through her letters, as she listened half heartedly to Edith and Judith biccering. Edith was attempting to pound into her sister’s head, the correct way in which one pronounced ‘Dumas’ as in Alexandre Dumas, the famous French writer. Iris, though half her mind was taken by her letters, she doesn’t quite undertsand how they came to debate the Author’s name. But now, the conflict had risen to the point of Edith loudly crowing “ _DUM-AAA_. _The ‘S’ is silent Judith. It’s french!”_ And Judith was pitching back, an equally as loud, _“DUM-ASSSS”_ , and hissing like a little snake. The elder woman simply rolled her eyes and carried onwards. Reading about how her friend, Lenora Swindle, had written to wish Thomas well in his marriage, and that Iris must visit soon for she had just had her parlour redecorated. As such, it took her attention away from the coupled man and wife, who were staggering – very painfully slowly but resolutely – towards the Pink Parlour door. Iris’s hand dropped her letters into her lap as she heard the familiar tones of her relatives pipe up from the hallway. Picking up their voices at mid conversation.

“…And after the way you sped down those stairs like a hyperactive one legged rabbit, Thomas. You have _absolutely no grounds_ on which to contest to me on this!”

Elizabeth piped up in a gentle yet firm tone. But Iris could hear the woman’s smile in her tone of voice.

“Unbelievable. I am _a Duke. You know_ …” He tried arguing back.

Elizabeth chuckled dryly.

“Ohhh, And I sir, am _a Duke’s wife_. And in case it has escaped your notice, I also now bare _your child..”_ She fought ought.

There came naught but stroppy silence from Thomas. Iris could just picture the indignant frown now plastered on his face. His brow tugged down, and his mouth forming a vexed moody line. A facial expression that made him look no more than a wayward child being told off.

“I am not, naming our child, if it is a boy, I do not care _how much_ you protest. I am not naming it _Benedict_. The grown fool himself would never cease pestering me not night, nor day. He is the most _vain_ creature behind closed doors. The boost to his ego would be _monstrous..._ And it is _me_ who’d never hear _the end of it..”_

Iris smiled.

“I think it is a _lovely_ name for a boy…” Elizabeth spoke up.

There then came the undoubtable sound of the Duke of Chatsworth, scoffing.

“ _Not for our_ boy.” He insisted.

“Well. If Benedict cannot be the namesake, I atleast insist on makng him Godfather to our child.” Elizabeth held firm.

Thomas sighed. “I cannot object to that _either,_ can I?” He asks.

“ _oh_ , absolutely not.” Elizabeth beamed.

There came a slight scuffle of boots shifting across the floor. And Iris heard Thomas’s cane clip the floor as he came to a sudden stop.

“You are hatching _a plot_ underfoot, aren’t you?” He interrogated.

“Perhaps…” Elizabeth grinned.

“Are you intending to let me in upon it, dear wife?” He asked.

“I may be considering making Violet the child’s Godmother...”

She offered. Come hell or high water, _something_ , she is not sure what, but _something_ was simmering under the surface between her and his best friend, and she was throwing them together to finally find out. They were both so stubborn and resistant, that they’d either come out of the match, wed, and happily in love, or in body bags. And this, this was Elizabeth’s attempts at throwing them together to see which instance would transpire.

“You sneaking little matchmaker you..” He growled lowly at her. But still, his voice gave away that he was wearing a smile.

“I am married now. It is a married woman’s duty to dabble in the art of matchmaking, you know.Until she has children of her own, she must make do with her single lady friends…” She insisted.

“Cupid had better be wary of you, my love..” He laughed. “And I also fear I must now write and send Violet a missive in warning…” He chuckled.

“Don’t besmirch my fun, fiend...” She laughed at her husband.

“There’s bugger all else fun for me to have _at this speed_ …” He grumped.

“We’re nearly there now. Doesn’t the slow tortoise always win the race in those old fables?” She asked rhetorically.

“Whilst that may be, I’m sure the speedy Hare has far _more fun_ …” Thomas whined.

Iris tilted her head to the side, as she heard the footsteps just beyond the ajar doorway now.

“Will you be alright on your own whilst I get the door?” She asked, hearing some shuffling occure beyond the door as she let her husband stand on his own two feet.

“I should not able to live without you pressed so nicely into my side… Get _back here, you….Wife!_ ” He whines dramatically. Trying to snatch her train skirts under his cane, pinning her where she was. Which he was sucessful at.

Elizabeth sighs, rolling her eyes at his smirking silliness.

“Can you ever be serious for a single second?” She asks.

“That would be _far too dull_ …” Thomas smiles. “You know me better than that…” He gruffed lowly.

Elizabeth gave him one of her looks. But, nonetheless, she allowed herself to curl into his chest.

She felt his hand come about her back, stroking down the curve of her lower back, resting just against her ass. The cane in his free hand clipping against her backside.

“Much better..” He groans lustfully, staring her down in the deep, dark melting way she knew had no innocent intent behind it.

“Even with _one arm, and_ an injured leg, I am amazed that you still manage to be _dangerous_ to propriety..”

She smiles up at him, as he leaned down to kiss her gently, one open mouthed kiss pressing to where her pale neck, met her shoulder.

“I have been deemed _unstoppable_ by many accounts…” He grins.

“Then again, I take every such opportunity I can _grasp,_ to be as close as humanly possible to my darling wife..” He smiles when he stands straight again.

“I noticed..” She beams.

“Shall we join the family now?” She asks.

Thomas grinned. It was steadfast tradition for the Thatcher Kenworthy ladies three, to take afternoon tea in the pink parlour, of a Wednesday afternoon. That meant there would be tea, and cakes. And those tiny little slips of crustless sandwiches. And of which his stomach grumbled at the thought of. _Solid food_. And better yet _, solid food that was not reeking of Elmstone’s famed spinach and turkey neck broth. The foul aroma that had been his diet for three long days now._ Thomas reckoned, he could eat about _forty_ of those tiny ineffectual sandwiches, and about twenty cakes, before he even felt anywhere close to being full. Cream puffs, custard tarts, strawberry tarts, eclairs smothered in rich belgian chocolate, bursting fat with fresh cream. _He’d eat about eighty of those whilst he was at it too_. His stomach _roared_ to be set upon such a _feast._

Elizabeth allowed the door to swing open, showing them the pastel pinks tones that lines the walls, and the furniture of the apptly named Pink Salon, then helping her husband to hobble across the threshold. They both smiled as they saw the three Thatcher ladies on the chairs and sofas, over by the sun drenched windows. Framed by the sunlight which poured in through the fancy crushed velvet pink curtains. Iris smiled at her brother and her sister in law.

He must’ve wrangled Elizabeth into allowing him out of bed. For she remembers the surgeon warning him of what happened if he rose too soon, and burst his stitches.

Clearly her crafty brother had managed to sweet talk his wife into allowing him up and about. He never was one for taking illness lying down - literally. On the few occasions he had fallen ill, be it with a cold, or the flu, she and the housekeepers, and maids seeing to him partially had to entomb him in his room just to make him stay sat and resting on his right honourable backside whilst he was nursed back to health. He always had been a rotter for sitting still. Her brother was cursed with being as fidgety as a slippery eel. He always found _something_ to be doing with himself and his days. He was _never one_ for idleness or slothfulness severance. Iris feared her sister in law had found that out the hard way.

“Should you be up and out of bed? Doctor Stanhope was very strict that…” Iris began. But Thomas cut her off as he and Elizabeth moved into the room. Coming across to the blush coloured pink seteé.

“You think my sweet, flame haired, yet also strict totalitarian wife, didn’t regail me with such a deathly warning before I rose to my feet, Irie?” Thomas asked with a low chuckle.

Iris nodded.

“I suppose not..” She admitted.

“My arm was somewhat twisted into the _dastardly scheme_ …” Elizabeth spoke up.

“Of that, I’ve _no doubt_....”

Iris smiled, watching as he brother winced, as his wife helped him flop ungracefully onto the sofa next to his sister, sighing as he shifted his back about to get more comfortable. Elizabeth fussed about him as any good wife should, propping pillows behind him, asking him if anything hurt. If he wanted his leg elevated, or if he wanted anything fetched from the kitchens. He answered with an all too loving smile. Stating he was perfectly fine as he was, if gasping for a cup of tea. _Hell,_ the state of hunger and thirst he was in, he’d finish _a whole pot_ of the stuff to himself.

Elizabeth leaned away to pour a very large cup of strong tea for the man. Thomas smiled to Iris as she fetched him some.

“I _think she likes me_ …”

He whispered cheekily to his sister. Leaning close to sway into her side.

“Can’t for the life of me see nor _understand why_ …” Iris teased.

He frowned stroppily at her.

“I’m going off you, Thatcher…”

Iris reached over and held up a piled high plate of eclairs to his face. Waving them under his nose. She raised one dark brow. Thomas’s mouth watered. As he hungrily eyed up the plate as if he would devour the whole thing.

“… Going off of you has rapidly gone, welcome back, dear sweet sister..” He grins.

“I _wonder what_ changed your mind?…” Iris simpered.

Thomas didn’t answer, not surprisingly, for currently he was far too busy stuffing his cheeks with an éclair. Near moaning in bliss, at finally sinking his teeth into something sweet and solid.

“Had enough of Mrs Elmstone’s turkey neck soup?” Iris asked. She nad him had had plenty enough of the god awful reeking broth shoved down their throats under the guise of it helping to make them ‘big and strong’ and put hairs on their chest, when they were young.

Thomas nodded. His mouth comically full of the pastry, his cheeks puffed out like a little dark haired hamster. He even had cream spattered to his chin. Iris rolled her eyes, laughing. Some days, she was ready to swear that he was no more than ten years of age. Not the fully grown Duke he should be.

Elizabeth cooed a good morning to the biccering sisters. Unfortunately solving their argument, agreeing with Edtih, as she did speak a little french herself, that the ‘s’ in Dumas, was indeed, silent. But consoled Judith my saying it was such a _silly notion_ to have a silent letter. Iris was amazed that the woman had managed to quell the argument all in under thirty seconds. Her new sister in law was a woman of many talents, _indeed._ A fine peacekeeper.

Elizabeth turned back from the girls, not the least bit surprised to find that her husband was busy chowing down an éclair, judging by the looks of the sticky mess sat on his chin. She rolled her eyes, settling down in the armchair opposite him and Iris, cradling a cup of her own tea to her chest as he lifted his from the saucer she had placed in front of him on the low end table.

“You are so elegant in dining, your Lordship..” Elizabeth remarked.

Thomas turned to see his little butterball poppet, Judith, was giggling at the sight of him like this. He took a moment, chewing before he gulped down the mouthful, wiping to gobbett of cream off his chin, and diving for another one.

“A unswerving diet of nothing but spinach and Turkey neck soup for three days is almost akin to the most _cruel torture_ one could ever inflict on a man…” Thomas offered.

“…Not to mention on a man who courageously took _two bullets_ to save his wife and child..” He added in a queit afterthought. His words a moody grumble. Adjusting his sling and doing his best to give Elizabeth his notorious big blue puppy eyes.

“Oh, were you injured? I hadn’t heard…” Iris sarrced. Winking at Elizabeth.

Thomas frowned petulantly at her.

“You seemed to eat two bowls _straight_ down without hesistation the morning after you were injured…” Elizabeth pointed out sipping her tea. One hand resting soothingly across her middle, stroking her belly softly, the other holding the saucer and teacup.

Thomas shrugged.

“I was _starved_. There was nothing else on offer…” He grumbled.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

Iris smiled, busy shuffling through her letters. She startled a little at seeing the _overly_ familiar looped handwriting, plus the fact it was grouped with a postmark from Florence. And the last letter, which she had not opened, bore a post stamp from the small Greek island of Kithnos. Now, it was safe to say, if there was one Thatcher Kenworthy lady who was well read, and could name every single country and capital on the globe, it was her daughter, Edith. But she was well read enough on the structure of the world, to know that going from Greece, to Florence, meant that the recipient of these letters was making her _way closer back_ to England across Europe. And soon, she feared she had to tell Thomas of the many missives she had been ignoring from the woman sending them, befoe they got a postmarked letter from Paris, exclaiming that she was now just _‘popping’_ across the English channel to come home - for the first time in _12 years_ since the death of her husband - to come and see both her children, and _finally_ see both her grandchildren in person. Something of which she had _never done_. Iris didn’t want to tell Thomas of her getting in touch with them again. It would only unsettle him. And in the state he was in currently, he needed _no further_ distress or discomfort. Iris swallowed, hiding the letter In the cumbersome piles of others. Putting it to one side. Out of sight, and out of mind, as the saying went.

“Before you make yourself so fat you are even less immobile, Thomas, do you wish to join us this afternoon?” Elizabeth asked.

“Join you?” Thomas asked, yet again with a mouthful of pastry. All Elizabeth heard coming from hi mouth was a very inelegant and muffled _‘rmmmoonnn rruuuu?_ ’ from her once handsome husband who was busying himself getting through an éclair a minute at this rate.

Elizabeth sighed, audibly looking across at him.

“ _Oh, good lord, and that is the father of my unborn child…”_ She sighed to herself, closing her eyes, and shaking her head.

When she opened her eyes again. She filled Thomas in upon the chore that her and Iris were undertaking later on in the afternoon.

“We are taking the trap to Chatsworth Chapel and the Old Vicarage. As The Reverend was so kind to us the other day, I procured him a present as a thankyou.” Elizabeth explained.

Thomas looked at her for a long moment, before he swallowed.

“You will not _dare think_ of driving that pony and trap all by yourself…” Thomas growled after he took quick time to finish the pastry.

Elizabeth smiled, she was not even three weeks along, and already he was so protective of her in her newly deemed ‘delicate’ state. She had a feeling by the time she was ready to birth her baby, her husband would be watching over her night and day like some kind of supervisory hawk. Dutifully guarding her and their little lemon with his _every waking_ second.

“No, I _daren’t not_. You’d have my head if I did…” Elizabeth smiled. She was not so _soft_ in the head as to know her husband would ever let her do that anyway – even _sans oncoming child_.

“I was going to ask if Ramsey would be so kind as to take us there and back...”

“In any case, I shan’t importune on yours and Iris’s outing. I shall stay here….”

“On the comfy sofa, Next to the food?” Elizabeth smiled.

“Stay here…” He pressed, loudly, as if she had not spoken. “…And… _run_ the house…”

His face fell as all of his relatives barked out laugher at him on hearing that.

“I think _Judith_ would run the house better than you, in your current state, Uncle Thomas…” Eidth laughed.

He glared across at Elizabeth as the family of women gaggled about him, smiled.

“Wherever possible, try and see to it that our child is a boy. Therefore I may escape such harassment all on my lonesome against an army of females…” he pleaded wth his wife.

“Out of _my control_ , I’m afraid. Mi’lord…” Elizabeth beamed.

Judith giggled with glee.

“Ice cream and strawberry jelly would be compulsory for _every meal_. And you would all have to call me _Captain_. And as Captain, you all have to swab the floors, and I can never be sent to bed! I may go to sleep whenever I like!” Judith gabbled, away in her own fanciful world.

Thomas smiled across at her.

“I must decline, Captain. I’m in no state for swabbing at present…” He fobbed off.

“Clap him in irons, and send the mutinous bilge rat to the brig, _ey Judith?_..” Elizabeth winked at her little niece, and then looking at her husband. Whom raised a seductive dark brow across at her because of her words.

“Fangs, Mrs K…” He hushed in a warning across to her as he merily sipped his tea. His lustful smile dissapearing into the rim of his teacup. But his eyes were as seductive as she had ever seen them.

~

 

 


	67. The Old Vicarage, Thankfulness, and Sidney the Duck...

 

 

 

~ Chatsworth Chapel ~

 

~ The Old Vicarage ~

~ View across Chatsworth Chapel ~

~ Rolling Hill's of Derbyshire ~

 

~ Next Chapter also features this beauty *Swoon* between me and you, I just love looking at him.. ~

 ~ And also Introducing, Sidney The Duck ~

 

Hugh Everett had never wanted for much in his life. And hadn’t done since the day he was born. He grew up in a respectable sized home, had a loving mother and father back home in Hampshire. And as he grew up, ever since he was a tiny young boy, he had always been gifted with the knowledge and luck to know _exactly_ what he wanted to do with his life. He was philospohical through and through. His mother and father swore hands down, cut him, and he’d _bleed theoretical queries_. He asked big, bright questions, very early on, even as a child, and then all the way up at University. He never shouted, played raucus rowdy games, never teased girls and boys his own age. Aswell as knowing what he wanted to do when he grew older, he also was supremely well liked and even mannered. He was kind, and raised to be pleasant to those around him. He was respectful, and polite. And even though his friends at school, all of whom had sisters, like he did, plotted ways to pinch their siblings pigtails, and hide bugs in between their bedsheets. Hugh had never had such cruel intentions to play such horrid tricks on his sister, Margaret.

Hugh took in the world around him with curious gentle intrigue. And when the time came for him to choose his calling, it was no surprise to everyone in his family that he chose to be a Clergyman. It was respectable, and humble. Much like he was. The self effacing lifestyle suited him immeasurably. What he had once claimed to Elizabeth, he had meant. He didn’t want gleaming townhouses, armies of servants or riotous parties. Or fine beruches and a landed title. He was merry enough to keep a small cottage, all to himself, along with a few animals for him to take care of, and spend many a long summers afternoon pouring through books in his study and writing sermons. Of which he was very skilled at. His name was known up and down the country by Reverands for his writing. He was more than happy enough to hang a hand painted sign on his gate which read _‘The Old Vicarage’_ looking out across his small chapel. Effie and Casper lolling about on the sun warmed lawn behind him as he worked in the afternoon sun.

He stepped back, to proudly examine the sign he had hand painted. Claiming the measly acre on which his church, and home sat, as his own land. It was small, true. But to him, it was an absolute _kingdom_. He’d _never wanted_ for anything more. This happy situation would keep him more than contented.

He was very grateful for the Duke of Chatsworth to give him such a generous living. He had given far more than Hugh deserved, or could need. The Vicarage was fully furnished with new furniture brought for his arrival, and the Chapel divinely decorated. Apart from the small sum of money he spent on food and firewood, and having some smarter clothes tailored at the wonderful French dressmakers to do his appearance proud. He had more than enough settling in his bank account to keep him satisfied.

As it was, he was just fixing the creaky old front gate to his garden, after having nailed the sign to the wall at the front of his house. He was just testing the gate to see if it swung open any easier. It certainly whined less, he noted. But it was then he heard the unmistakable sound of a cart, and horses hooves thud up the track behind him. His cottage sat at the end of a dead ended track where the Chapel could be found. From where he now crouched with his back to the beaten track, he turned about to see none other than the Duchess of Chatsworth, and Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, sat upon a pony and trap, with a mutton chopped, silvery haired driver edging it to a stop behind him. He smiled, coming to a stand, he twisted to face them both. As the trap lurched to a stop, he saw that Elizabeth stood, and he was only all too happy to assist her down, of course, wiping his somewhat unclean hands first on th rag he had in his pocket, then offering his hand to her as she eased herself down. She was with child after all. He crossed to the large trap, bidding a good afternoon to the driver. Who returned it with a cheek creasing smile and a country twang to his accent that gave away he had been born and bred here.

“And to what do I owe this extreme pleasure? Your Ladyship, Lady Iris?”

Hugh asked with a genial smile to the Duchess. Before flickering his eyes over to Iris just opposite the flame haired woman he was now helping down. His breath stuttered in his chest for a moment. Mainly because Iris looked so pleasantly alluring in the sunlight. The way it caught her dark hair, the way it made her eyes and her skin glow. He watched her delectably lovely heart shaped mouth stretch out into her all consuming smile. Today she wore one of her lovely cascading white dresses, dotted all over with plain silver flowers and vines, with a grey shawl linked about her shoulders. Whereas the Duchess wore a burgandy red dress, with a plain golden shawl round her own shoulders. Hugh simply knew the Duke, even in his compromised state, would have skimped no measures when it came to his wife taking a shawl in case the weather turned inclement. After shielding her with his own body from _two bullets_ , Hugh had quickly learned there wasn’t an earthly thing the Duke of Chatsworth _wouldn’t do_ to protect his wife. It was hearteneing to see, in this age of strict, stiff lipped emotionless marriages, to see one which was based on pure passion and love. Hugh had always had faith in love, and his new Landowners heartily made him believe true love was within every man’s reach. His attention snapped back to Elizabeth as she spoke, now stood by his side, safely on the ground.

“You flatter us so, Mr Everett. But. I will indeed inform you that we are not making a _social_ call…” She smiled.

Hugh beamed across at her as she spoke

“The purpose of our visit it mainly goods delivery…”

Iris spoke up from still being stood atop the trap. Quite adoring the way he looked at her therafter, with a soft little smile. She couldn’t help it. She loved the lingering gaze from his marbled blue eyes.

“Goods delivery?” Hugh questioned, smiling as he raised one inquisitive brow.

Elizabeth grinned across at him. Before she turned and walked round to the back of the cart, but not before giving the friendly white steed, pulling it, a pat on the neck as she walked round the trap. He smiled wtaching her. before he turned his eyes upwards to look at Iris.

“She’s a totalitarian of a Duchess, isn’t she…” Hugh asked gently to Iris, But not before he held his hand up. The sunshine which bounced off his form from behind left Iris a little melted to the knees, and slightly warmed to the stomach. The sun framed the slight chestnut auburn tinge to his usually tawny coloured hair. He was not all entirely dressed as was proper to greet two women of high rank, but nor she or Elizabeth cared about things like that, he had on only a cotton white shirt rolled to the elbows, and a green waistcoat. On his long powerful legs were, slightly muddied at the knees, biscuit coloured breeches that had seen better days. And well worn brown boots on his feet. He was slightly dewy, Iris could see, the sheen on his undressed neck, and forehead, she imagines it came from the exertion of working in the sun. Indeed, to his small front lawn, she saw that there were jars and brushes, paints and varnishes, and various tools aswell. Clearly they had interupted him pottering about the old vicarage doing various handiwork.

When she leaned over and slipped her hand into his, she peered down, seeing his glittering eyes looking up warmly at her, his smile was unaplogetically loving as he gazed up at her. His hand, though she could see he was labouring with them, were not calloused and rough, his palms were soft and warm, and She sunk down to come off the trap and directly in front of him now. As always, he towered a head or two higher than her. Which made her feel impossibly feminine, especially when she saw the affection which simmered away for her, in his enchanting eyes.

She only realised she had been staring when their coach driver, Ramsey, twisted his head a little about to glance subtly at the enamoured Woman and Reverend, and smiled wryly to himself, and gave a slightly raspy, but not uneeded throat clearing cough. Which startled both Hugh and Iris and jolted them both back down to planet earth. Hugh flushed a little, idly scratching the back of his neck, disjointing his eyes from Iris’s, and Iris reshuffled her shawl about her shoulders. She smiled, stepping around him and joining her Sister-in-law at the back of the trap.

They arrived there in time to see Elizabeth grinning wide at the pair of them. Before she threw back a large musty sackcloth blanket, revealing to the Reverend several crates underneath. Hugh leaned closer, to indeed see there was coming from the crates, small clucking sounds.

Hugh skimmed his eyes across to the Duchess.

“I have a feeling you are spoiling me, My Lady…”

Hugh smiled to the beaming red haired Duchess. Who smiled at him, her eyes bright and friendly from under the brim of her wide day hat.

“Nonsense. They were procured as an appt thankyou for your bravery not three days previous. With compliments from the Duke and Duchess of Chatsworth. Hugh Everett, meet your new poultry flock..” She smiled.

Hugh fought the urge to chuckle, and his smile grew all the more wide. She had remembered their conversation at Robert Compton’s ball. About how he had everything he could have wanted, a comfortable home, a parish, his lifes long dream of writing very short sermons was now a reality. He had japed and stated all that was missing, was owning some chickens. And now, it seems, he could cross the later off his list.

“I do not know how to thankyou, your ladyship.” Hugh offered sincerely.

“You may start by calling me Elizabeth, Mr Everett. And know that this was the least we could do for what you assisted us with the other day. It is _us_ , who cannot even begin to thank _you_ …” She informed.

Hugh met Elizabeth’s eyes.

“You are much to kind. Elizabeth. Please relay my earnest thanks to Thomas…” He insisted.

“But of course..” She smiled. Grinning over to Iris.

Iris frowned a little at the look of pure cunning in Elizabeth’s eyes just then.

“I shall just go and get Ramsey to help me unload the crates…” She beamed. Turning and flitting away from both Hugh and iris’s sides. Before either of them could protest. And before Hugh could rightfully point out that _he_ was perfectly able at getting them down from the trap.

“She is growing awfully used to being a calculating intermediary…” Hugh offered as they watched the wily Duchess sidle away, leaving them alone together once again, if only for a minute.

“Dare I say, I believe she is growing rather _keen_ on the sport…” Iris smiled.

They looked at each other, and smiled warmly.

“But, as it stands, I do happen to have a gift for you aswell, Reverend…”

Iris began, before she reached into the pockets of her dress, and withrew a small wrapped package. It was wrapped in brown paper, and tied with a blue ribbon. It was against ettiquette, she knew, a lady should never extend a gift to a gentleman, until he extended one to her. But, at her point in life, she was beyond caring for such a thing. She handed it to him, and watched as he turned the small thing about in his large, artful hands. He smiled fondly at Iris, before his hands delicately unwrapped it. It was obviously a book. But upon opening it, he discovered that it was titled ’50 walks in Derbyshire’ by John Gillham. An illustrated path of the finest routes the county had to offer. She knew he was fond of walking Effie and Casper, and as he was new to this part of the world, she thought of no better present than a small token of her gratitude, which highlighted the best of what Derbyshire had to offer.

Hugh smiled across at her. He said naught, but let his actions speak louder than words, he reached over and took her hand, raising it to his lips, and placing a kiss on the back of it.

“Thankyou Iris. I shall treasure this always…” He promised. When he realesed her hand, seeing that he caused her to blush a little, he looked down, opening the cover to see she had scrawled something on the inside of the cover _. ‘With Affection, and Thanks, your friend, Iris Thatcher Kenworthy..’_

“It is a small measure, Sir, that much I know. But I could not go without thanking the man who put his own life between harms way of both my daughters to save them.” She confessed.

Hugh smiled, nodding his head in a slow inclined nod.

“To me, they would be worth _a thousand_ bullets to save them from danger, Iris.” He complimented.

She smiled thankfully.

“Indeed. I think so too. They are my world. I would not know, how to _even begin_ , if… something happened to..” Iris swallowed. The reality of loosing her daughters was too awful to contemplate.

Hugh laid a hand over her own. Effectively calming her.

Her eyes met his own once again.

“You can rest assured, Iris. Nothing will happen to them to hurt them. Not you, nor the duke, nor Elizabeth, nor I will allow that to ever happen. That man is behind bars now. For good. Nothing harmful will ever befall a family as beloved and respected as yours ever again. That much we may have faith in…” He promises.

“We are so fortunate to enjoy your aquaintance, Hugh. It has been many years since I have had a… _friend_ … as close to confide in, as the one I have in you.”

“I’m all ears for yours, or your families conversation and company both night and day, Iris. I promise you.” He smiles.

“Well. My eldest shall adore to hear that. She often plagues me with her deep-thinking, learned comments upon literature, religion, or Philosophy. I’m embarassed to say I oft find myself unable to answer her pleas, I more oft than not, have to divert her towards my Brother for the solutions she seeks...” Iris smiles.

“Then, the next time she poses such a theoretical and erudite statement, should you, or the Duke, not be able to answer her, be sure to nudge her in _my_ direction. I’d be more than happy to entertain and attend to such a studious mind. Especially in the matters of conviction.” He nods.

“You are too kind.” Iris compliments.

“I believe I am _just kind_ enough..” He jokes. To which she chuckles lightly.

It was this point that Elizabeth decided to reinsert herself on the two, coughing loudly as she walked to the back of the trap where they were both still stood. She smiled om seeing that Iris had gifted him the book she had selected so carefully, agonising for days if it was the correct thing to gift him with. Judging by both their smiles, she can tell that it is.

“… On second thoughts. I see _no reason_ with which to bother Ramsey as we ourselves are perfectly capable…” The Duchess leered.

“How fortunate…” Hugh commented drily, with a perfect level of wry humour.

Elizabeth beamed all the wider at him.

“ _Oh_ , I did forget to mention. They _do_ already have names…” She began. Referring to the six crates around them.

Hugh smiled.

“You named them? My Duchess?” He asked in amusement.

“I’m afraid not…” She grinned in humour.

“That honour, Sir Everett, I am afraid, went to my youngest _daughter_ …” Iris explained.

“ _Ah_ \- I see.” Hugh offered.

“She has a very, _wild,_ imagination for a five year old. And a profound _partiality_ to naming things…” Iris spoke up.

“Pray, I am _atremble_ with anticipation. Let me hear of these names of Judiths selection…”

Hugh smiled as he reached onto the trap and lugged one of the light crates into his hand, careful to keep it level so as no to disturb the animal inside it. He gently cradled it as he stood smiling genially at them. Looking through the wooden crate gaps to see the rusty brown feathers of the chicken inside it.

“The one right at the back here, with the black and white spotted feathers is Bumpkin…” Iris told. 

Hugh was biting back a too amused smile.

“And. _Oh, heaven’s_ … Elizabeth which one did she say was Mrs Cluckers Mcfeatherington again?”

 _“Mrs Cluckers Mcfeatherington_..” Hugh asked with barely concealed humour.

“As we said, a truly _wild imagination._ ” Elizabeth chuckled.Laughing along with Hugh.

“I think that the _grey one_ was Mrs Cluckers..” Elizabeth helped, crossing to Iris to help with the chicken naming.

“ _AhH, Yes_. I remember now..” Iris smiled, perfectly seriously.

“The _White_ one with _brown speckles_ was Queenie. If I remember rightly…” Elizabeth smiled.

Iris nodded.

“… And the brown one your are holding, Hugh, is called Muffin…” Iris offered. “Which then leaves that little one there, the reddy one, whose name is Twinkle.”

Hugh looked down to the crate in his arms.

“Nice to meet you, _Muffin_.” He spoke to the chicken in the crate he held. He walked the crate over to the front near his cottage gate, bumping it open with his hip, and laying the crate down on the grass. The ladies laughed at his words as he went.

“Welcome to your new home…”

He groaned, easing it down, before standing and going back for another crate which Elizabeth held out for him. Careful to to disturb Queenie in the process. True to her name, she fussed and clucked like a diva, stroppily so, at being moved so abruptly. Effie and Casper sat on the lawn, watching their master with genial stares. They were both too old for chicken chasing, after all. The new flock of birds would see no trouble from the two dogs.

“This breed of chicken is rumoured to hatch particularly good eggs…” Iris offered, shuffling the crates further down to the bqck of the cart so they could be reached. This, however, disturbed the sixth crate, of which came a successive bout of long, severely disturbed _honking_ noises.

“I am no zoologist, but that, to me, does not sound like a chicken…” Hugh awarded as he came back to them both. He looked to Iris and Elizabeth, who looked at the crate with something resembling sheepish reproach.

“ _That…_.” Elizabeth sighed.

“….would be _Sidney_ …” She spoke lowly.

Hugh’s eyes met her own. She spoke as If there was an untamed lion in the crate before them.

“He can be a little, _temperamental_ , we have discovered… He is used to his own way, we were warned by the seller.” Iris winced.

“Sidney is not a _chicken,_ is he?”

“Indeed not.” Elizabeth offered with a pinched expression.

“He is a rather…” Iris began, searching for the words.

“ _Strident_ …” Elizabeth helped.

“Thankyou. _Yes._ He is a …. Somewhat s _trident, and belligerent,_ Duck.” Iris confirmed in a low voice.

“We understand it that he likes to be, _‘Lord of the land’_ , so to speak..” Elizabeth interjected.

“Let us meet this _belligerent, Sidney_ , then…” Hugh smiled, sliding the crate forward, hearing the honking noise desist for a few seconds.

“The seller informed us that we couldn’t take the chickens without Sidney, they were all hatched together, and as Sidney was an orphan, he does enjoy the company of the other chickens. And we would not dream of parting such a merry party…” Elizabeth explained.

Hugh considered their words for a moment. Before he reached over, and wrenched open one side of the crate, Iris and Elizabeth recoiled, watching as a little white feathered head came into view. Beady little black eyes surveyed the reverend and the ladies, and Sidney raised his orange beak in the air, surveying the scene before him.

Elizabeth and Iris daren’t not make _one sudden_ movement between them. They had seen Sidney get a little, _aggressive_ , and loud when they first purchased him, and now were somewhat _wary_ of the bellicose creature.

They watched with alarm as Hugh plucked the, fairly large duck, from the crate, and hoisted him in the air, before gently throwing him away, lowering the duck onto the ground. He landed, on his feet, pecked idly at the ground below him, and then waddled away, happily.

Hugh turned back to the ladies, who were staring open mouthed, and very impressed at the Smirking Reverend.

“We had a goose on my father’s Rectory when I was growing up. It liked best to chase and scare people and attack their trouser legs, or their skirts until they ran screaming. Sidney, in all his _gobby glory_. Does _not frighten_ me.” He awarded with a confident smile.

“Behold, Reverend Everett, the Incredible Duck Tamer..” Elizabeth mumbled.

Hugh chuckled to that.

 

~

 


	68. Heavy Burdened Secret's, Marooned Duke's, and A Tub for Two....

 

 

 

~ 5 Days Later, A somewhat guilt-ridden Mother, Sit’s alone in the Orangery with a stack of unopened letters…~

 

Iris Thatcher Kenworthy, was, and not for the first, nor she daresay the last time in her life, a conflicted woman.

She now sat, In the Orangery. Pleasantly warmed in the patch of sunshine that chose to shine through the windows, illuminating her where she sat on the setee. Out in front of her, swarming the low coffee table, sat a stack of fat letters next to the silver tray and the steaming pot of tea. Some letters were faded, and riddled with post marks from all over the world. Hong Kong, Milan, Greece, Egypt, Turkey, Romania, Kiev, Germany, Morocco, Madrid, Moldova, Denmark. Almost too many countries for her to count on her own ten fingers, all written with the looped and elegant hand she knew all too well. She sat there, wearily fidgeting her hands in her dove grey skirts. She sighed at her own silliness. Readjusting herself, she straightened the sky blue ribbon that sat about her waist. Before wetting her lips, and shuffling her hips back further into the setee. She took another deep steadying breath. She had finally mustured up the courage to try and open and read the contents on some of the letters from her Mother. Which had been arriving in their bucket loads in the past few weeks, it was almost up to two or three _a day_ now.

She couldn’t quite pinpoint at what moment in time they had begun arriving. But at her best guess, she wagered it was sometime just shortly after Thomas wrote home to say he had broke the mold of ten seasons and years down in London, and was courting the woman whom was now his wife. It was a sensitive subject to her and Thomas. Not to mention to Edith too. She had never even met her Grandmother. And now, Iris could not understand why she would suddenly start becoming interested in getting back in touch. She hadn’t even _replied_ to any of the letters. Which was most unlike her. Iris was unfailingly kind. The usually genial woman would not _bare_ the thought of a sent letter going unreturned from the recipient. But, she had every right to be wary. The last time Iris had seen her mother, she had been eighteen, and John had been alive, and they were merrily living in Chesterfield, in their little cottage, with their first child who was barely 2 years old. How much had changed in the 12 years she had been away. How much had come and gone in her life. She peered out of the wide open french doors, which were thrown outwards onto the patio, overlooking down onto the conrete steps, over the terrace, down onto the sloped gardens below. Where Judith and Edith were currently perched on a rug. Judith laughing away in the sunshine at whatever story Edith was reading to her. Iris swallowed nervously, sighing, averting her eyes back to the pile of letters.

Perhaps it was just nervousness for reading the contents of the letters, or the shame of hiding the missives from Thomas’s knowledge, but whatever it was. Her stomach fidgeted uncomfortably. She had _never lied_ to her brother. And keeping such a sore secret from his wisdom was eating away at her. She felt like she was _rotting_ away in her own shame. He’d be furious If he knew of this. He’d demand why she didn’t tell him. And her only reasonable defence was that she knew it would unsetttle him, and for all the hardship he endured in his life, Iris wouls stand firm, and insist that the _only reason_ she hid the awful truth from him regarding their mother, was so that he could enjoy the first few blissful weeks of his marriage in plentiful delight with his lovely wife. And not have to be thrown headfirst back into work, tenant grievances, and to top it all, deal with all the poignant emotional baggage that came with news of their absent, selfish, and irresponsible mother trying to reinsert herself onto their lives when she felt it prudent.

Because it certainly _never worked_ the other way around. Iris had tried for months after Caroline Kenworthy first left, to get in touch, but after a year, and no word coming from her. She lost hope, faith and effort in trying. It was as one sided a relationship if ever there was one. She could happily reinterject herself in their lives, but they could not ever manage to prevail upon hers.

She still had the _very first_ letter she had sent back home after she flounced out, a _mere day_ after they gave their father his funeral. She had kept it. All this time. Stashed away in her vanity chest upstairs. It was stained, teared and faded now. But she would always remember being handed that letter after the Dowager Duchess of Chatsworth had sent for them. It was written on Hotel De Louvre stationary that told Iris the Woman had picked the most expensive Hotel in Paris to reside in. By the time Iris had sent on an urgent express to the woman. Two days later, it was sent back, unopened, with a scratched apology written by some french concierge, it had read _“_ _Je suis désolé de le dire , depuis l'arrivée de cette lettre , cet invité a quitté l'hôtel -_ sans laisser d'adresse _"_ Of which Thomas, who spoke a little French, told her it said that, _‘I am sorry to say, since the arrival of this letter, that this particular guest has left the hotel – with no forwarding address."_

Iris had slumped down, dejected on hearing of this. Thomas had soothingly patted her shoulder, and then left her to it. Ever since that day, Iris had learned the hard way as a girl of eighteen years old, that her mother was not such a kindhearted woman to put her childrens happiness before her own. Thomas always said he envied her, Iris always managed to see the good in _everyone_. He always teased her to the fact that she had _such goodness_ about her. He himself less assured of the virtue in people, he struggled to see the integrity of his relative, and saw her for what she truly was. A woman who was too self absorbed to worry about her family. The only ties she had to their home, was now severed. She had left them in abandon to handle Chatsworth and the title, all on their own. With no help to guide that. Thomas had floundered, much like Iris had, for a weeks, unsure how to move on. Before he seemed to buck himself up, he gruffed good riddance in regards to their Mother, and then pulled his socks up. So long as he lived, and bore the title his father had once done so very proud, he would not let the shame of having such a mother, weigh him down, and drag the Kenworthy name into the mud.

From then on, Iris knew that even her ever prevailing faith in the honesty, and decency of people, had fallen short in regards to _her own mother._ And that in itself, was a _very grand thing_.

She bit her lip, damning her own daftness, shouldering the agony that was bringing back up the bitter past. She reached for the first letter, and before she could talk herself out of it again, she ripped it open, and with fumbling hands, slid out the parchment letter within. Folding it up to read it. She chosen the one with the postmark from Milan on it.

Her eyes skimmed over the first few scribbled words. And tears stung her eyes as she read the words that sat, stark and unaplogetic on the paper. Because it was everything she had never said in her deserting them.

 

_My Dearest Iris,_

_I will not hold my breath to receive your reply to my letters, I am aware I have made it somewhat a challenge with which to know my wherabouts, let alone to send me your reply. I have not tried writing to Thomas, I know for definate my enquiries would not be received with well wishes._

_I know I have no right with which to expect you to read my letters. It goes without saying, that I realise now that I have not been the supportive Mother that you and Thomas both desrved and needed in times of both your crisis and mourning…_

Iris took a deep breath, letting her hand drop the letters to her lap. A gasp burst from her throat, and tore across her lips as her mouth. It was just as she always expected, she finally was trying to right the wrongs she had made in her life. But somehow, she managed to make it so that the grief they suffered was purely their business of _loosing their_ father, and nothing to do with that fact she had lost _her_ beloved husband. As ever, Caroline was taking herself out of the equation. Thomas had always stated, in a low growl, that was one of the only things she was best and good at.

… My other purpose in writing, was also to inform you, that in two days time, I shall be in the South of France. And it is my particular wish that I may make a visit to my friends in London after this, and thereafter, If you would receive me, I should like to visit Chatsworth also…

Iris shook her head. Not realising a tear had burst down over her cheek. She discarded the letter, folding it up again and pressing it back into the pile of things where the others lay.

_She was coming home._

She was coming home after all these years away, and her first thoughts weren’t even of her _own_ children, or family. They were of visiting her old friends in London, not of the grandchildren she had never met, or the children she had not seen since they were adolescents. Iris tried to calm her breathing. Brushing away the tears on her cheeks. Hoping Thomas didn’t happen upon her in this state, for then she’d have to tell him the awful truth-

“Iris?” Came a soft coo from across the Orangery doorway.

Startled, the dark haired woman looked up, her pale eyes and cheeks still moist, to see her sister-in-law come best friend, stood looking sympathetic towards her tears, her figure gently interposed onto the room. A book in her hands. Of course, it was Monday afternoon, Elizabeth always read to Ophelia of a Monday afternoon. A habit both women now looked forward too, the elder woman mostly kept to her private salon in the day, and even for some mealtimes. She sometimes too a turn in the garden, if the weather was dry, not too windy, not past three o’clock, and the ground was just dry enough for her tastes. Even if Ophelia was still a little batty in the brain department, her wit was as sharp as a razor, and Elizabeth _adored_ it. She empathised with Ophelia’s rants about the silliness of society, and how they both had a partiality to Austen. And moreover, especially to the appallingly bad novels of Mrs Radcliffe. They adored those the most. The current trashy novel they were enjoying, ‘ _Miss Hedgecock and the Evil Earl_ ’ had just got through avery climactic scene, whereby a villian had come to a _sticky end_ , unfortunately, this violent end had come about as he had been _pecked to death by chickens_ , no less. Elizabeth had read this part out to Ophelia, whom had look aghast in horror, but then grinned, gleefully like the chesire cat smile of the wicked villian in chapter three, her beady eyes lit up like bulbs, glittering with dark delight for more of the absolutely _addictive_ yet _hilariously bad_ story, and she begged for her to read more pages. Elizabeth had, _of course, obliged_.

Iris sighed, sniffling as she brushed away more of her tears. Feeling a little ridiculous at having been caught out so plainly. She could see that Elizabeth had moved closer into the room. Her face pinched with concern for her friend slash sister in law, today she wore one of her unassuming gowns, as she was doing nothing but flouncing about the manner all day, yet, to Iris, she thought that the woman still managed to look priceless, even though she had on such a simple ensemble. It was simple cut moss green velvet dress. As she was with child now, she had relaxed her dress in wearing such strict corsets, but her fine figure was still showed off nicely by the dress she wore. The sunlight malformed the shifting shades of the dress, and it also caught her hair, making it look a bright burst of copper red, as it was twined into an elegant assortment of pins. She had the earrings she had been gifted for her wedding, diamond droplets, which sat sparkling down from her pale lobes. She looked very pretty today, her curls of coiled red hair framing her pale, supple skin.

“Iris? Whatever is the matter?” She asked gently, coming across to the settee where she sat, wiping away her tears of sorrow.

“I’m _-I’m_ fine..” She insisted, sniffing and putting on a brave smile. Thought Elizabeth could see her eyes still watered.

“Please, you are _not alright_ …”

Elizabeth insisted, moving closer. Watching more tears roll down her cheeks. She reached into her little pocket, and produced her embroidered handkerchief for her, it was swirled with wild daisies, for it was her favourite flower when she was young, her mother had learned of this , and stitched the lacy hankie for her, aswell as her initials, sat in blue thread on the square of white cloth. Iris felt the air sweep past her, rolling with a wall of the honey and lillies fragrance that her friend used, as Elizabeth relaxed herself next to Iris on the blue velvet setee.

Elizabeth’s face was pinched, her brows drawn at seeing Iris so downcast. She soothingly rubbed her shoulder to instill some comfort into her.

Iris swallowed, drying her cheeks, which now were rubbed a little red from the cloth being dabbed to her eyes.

“I’ve been _so very stupid_ , Elizabeth..” Iris spoke.

“How do you mean?” Elizabeth asked after a second, frowning gently.

Iris’s hazy grey eyes met her own. And The Duchess could see that they looked like a once blue sky, now turned stormy, cloudy and threatening rain. She swallowed before she spoke. The hankie still in her grip.

“I’ve been lying to my brother about something…I _never_ lie to Thomas, not _about anything_ …”

Iris hushed quietly. Her eyes peering around the corridoors near them. Hoping he wouldn’t suddenly stride in and see them like this. Well. Stride was a bit of a stretch, really. H _obble in_ and see them would be more accurate. He was not terribly mobile at present. He had _only just_ mastered walking about without his wifes help. And as it stood anyway, the clack of the cane, and the shuffling of his boots was a giveaway of his approaching form anyway…

Elizabeth soothed Iris’s fears.

“Have no fear Iris. He shall _not wander in_ on this conversation. As it is, I left him stranded above stairs so I may have some peace and quiet this morning without him pestering me. I believe as it stands, he shall be in the upstairs library, indulging himself in a book. He is quite safely ensconced up there. He can’t yet manage the stairs all by himself..” She smiled in mirth.

Iris laughed a little at that, on hearing how she had left her husband _marooned_ above stairs for want of some tranquility. Her eyes scanned over the missives laid out on the table in front of them once more, and she knew she couldn’t keep this rotting secret much longer, especially not from Elizabeth. She’d trust her sister in law with her own life, so naturally, the secret could be safely shared with her.

“The reason I am lying to my brother, is because… Our mother, has been _writing to me_ for the past few months…” She explained, metting Elizabeth’s kind eyes.

“Your _Mother?_ ” Elizabeth asked in confirmation.

Iris nodded.

“Yes.” She offered.

“It started again just after Thomas wrote home to us of him courting you, That was when we received the first letter. And since then, they have doubled in their number, it was nearly two a week. And now it has been almost _a daily occurrence_ to receive one. And I haven’t opened any of them. Nor replied to them. Which is most unlike me. But I couldn’t bring myself to open or read them… And I know that If I told Thomas, he would, be… outraged, on hearing she was trying to make contact again. So I hid the letters, shouldered the secret, and just now I thought I would be brave, and read one, but, alas… “ She cut herself off, shaking her head.

“We did not part with our mother under _easy_ circumstances…” Iris offered.

Elizabeth nodded. Thomas had never said much about his mother, and the little he had, was enough to tell her he couldn’t think _kindly_ of her. As she understood it, she had abandoned her grieving young family, and left them virtually orphaned to bring themselves up all on their own. She had taken her share of the money left to her by her husband, and was gallivanting off before the Duke was even cold in his grave. She only then wrote to ask for more money, and the blithely ask how her grandchildren fared. Other than that, she remained a relative stranger to her own Son and Daughter.

“Thomas told me a little about her. I am to take it, that she hasn’t been back for, almost 12 years, is it now?…” Elizabeth asked gently.

Iris nodded in confirmation.

“.. And, before you happened upon me. I read that she is planning to head for the south of France, then probably Montpellier, her usual haunts, then there is Paris, London to see her friends, and then she stated she planned to come _here_ to visit…” She explained.

Elizabeth frowned. Caroline Kenworthy The Dowager Duchess of Chatsworth was stepping foot onto the British isles for the first time in twelve years, and and the first people she was going to visit, was some paltry friends in London, and not even her own _relatives_ – her own son and daughter - were being given first honour of forethought.

“From what I understand of the situation, Iris. You needn’t worry about how Thomas will react. And I give you my word I shall not tell him of it. I know it is a situation which causes all of you a great deal of grief, but please, do not worry. If she does decide to come home, and is apologetic, then perhaps she want’s to absolve some of the wrongs of her life. Perhaps after all these years, she realises that she has done you and Thomas both wrong. If she seeks to make amends, then let her. Because you are in no way in the wrong here.” Elizabeth assured her.

“I was concerned about Thomas’s reaction, I must admit. And as it was, I rationalised my actions to myself by justifying that my Brother deserved to enjoy the first few weeks of his marriage with you. Without being emotionally hindered and incensed by such news. He deserved his merriment with you...” Iris confessed.

Elizabeth smiled gladly. She leaned in and embraced Iris in a loving hug.

When she pulled back, the flame haired woman was relieved to see Iris smiling in a heartened manner. Elizabeth clasped her hand. Holding it tight and comfortingly.

“I’ll keep your secret Iris. I give you my word. Thomas shall not hear of it. and when the time is right. I shall be there to support you when you tell him. come hell or high water..”

“He might _be so angry_ at me…” Iris spoke fearfully. She hated thinking she had upset her brother.

“Not If _I_ have anything to do with it, _he won’t_.” Elizabeth spoke fiestily.

“He may have put himself between two bullets for me, as he takes _great lengths to remind me_ , but I am with _his_ child, and if he would like me to allow him to be there when the little lemon is born, then he shall not dare upset me by being angry with you.” She spoke wickedly. The gleam in her eye telling Iris that she was perfectly serious in her words. Knowing she held all the bargaining chips in her hands. _Lord help you, Thomas,_ Iris thinks, _you have a true no-nonsense wife on your hands._

Iris smiled gently at her relative. Who she thought of more as a best friend that a sister in law.

“Thankyou.” Iris spoke gently.

“I suppose my biggest fear is her pitching up, out of the blue, banging on our front door one evening, which would then force me to come clean to Thomas about her writing. I wouldn’t put it past her to do such a thing. She was _never_ terribly good at sending word ahead.” Iris explained nervously.

“If she is in the south of France now, as she so claims. Then it will take her atleast a few days to get across France. It is a large country after all. We have time to perpare ourselves…” Elizabeth promised.

“I hope so. _With all my heart_ , I really do..” She sighs.

Elizabeth squeezed her hand tight in comfort then.

“So long as I am married to your Brother Iris, should you be afflicted with any grief, _please,_ know that you do not bare it _alone_ anymore. I will be there to bare the brunt of it with you. I promise.” She smiled.

Iris looked at Elizabeth for a long moment as she smiled.

“I am so grateful that he met you.” She spoke sincerely. “I wake up each day, blessing it, that he found you to marry…”

Elizabeth chuckled.

“…More than can be said for the man himself at present. I bet he is currently _cursing my name_ for the way I abaondoned him above stairs with no way of getting down. Unless he particularly sweet talks Wilkin’s into lending an arm…” Elizabeth laughed.

Iris tittered at that image too.

“Knowing my brother, I wouldn’t put it _past_ him…” She grins.

“Nor I..” Elizabeth beams back.

“Would you care for some tea? And a ginger snap? As always Ethel is _far too_ overzealous with her portion sizes. There is enough here _for five_ people…”

Iris smiles, leaning forwards on the sofa to pour the loose leaf tea into the cups and saucers provided on the tray. Elizabeth could indeed see, judging by the size of the teapot the size of which could serve twenty, and going by the veritable mountain of biscuits on the plate, still warm from the oven, Elizabeth had a prediction that Ethel thought that the women above stairs needed _fattening_ up. And especially now she was with Thomas’s baby, she saw fit at every meal to give the Duchess a plate piled high with extra veg, meat, and everything. Probably in attempts to get more nutrients into her now she was, as the phrase went, _‘eating for two’_

“ _Oh, absolutely_. Thankyou. I’m parched. I daren’t partake in the peppermint _atrocity_ that Ophelia seems to favour. To me, it makes no sense. _Tea is tea_. Tea should not be a hedgerow in a teabag. I do not care how good she insists it is for her old bones, I can almost consider the foul stuff an abomination to a good english custom…”

Elizabeth smiled, as Iris handed her a cup laughing at her keeness for tea. She sipped it, almost halfway down in one gulp. It was delighfully strong, and just hot enough. A _perfect_ cup of tea, to her mind.

“I believe she also thinks it keeps her skin looking radiant…” Iris supposed. “She always suggested I try it during my pregnancy with Judith. It was supposed to be so full of various vitamins and grasses that were supposed to be very soothing for a mother..” Iris told, sipping her tea.

A look of realisation dawned on Elizabeth then.

“Ahh. I see. So is that why she is also convincing me to try and take norwegian seaweed supplements?” Elizabeth asked.

Iris looked on at the Duchess with empathy.

“Yes. She tried that on me too. She made me eat the dried stuff. It was like chewing on a _leather_ bound book. Don’t let her force it on you. Between you and me, It gave me _terrible_ stomach ailments…” Iris insisted.

“Duly noted.”

Elizabeth winced with dread. Sat far back into the sofa, relaxing herself into the upholstery. No one was around barking at her to sit up straight, as men did not like a slobbenly posture. Oh, she woke up each day grinning with the fact that she had a _very fine_ husband at her side and that she need pay _no more heed_ to the etiquette rules that eligible young ladies had routinely pounded into them day and night. The only time she’d have to wade back into rules, regulations and laws of society once again, was for the day she would teach her own child, be it girl or boy, about etiquette and propriety. But, she had a _long while_ to get there as of yet.

“And wait til she tells you, that you should give birth standing up… That’s a particulalry mediaval practice which she still claims is better for the newborns brain development…” Iris added. “Thankfully I birthed both my daughters, lying down, in a bed. And not having to adhere to her wishes, what with being fifty miles away…”

Elizabeth looked a little scared to that.

“Please see to it she comes _nowhere_ near me when I am in labour. She may come and see the baby when it is out of me and in his or her bassinet, not a _second_ before…” Elizabeth mumbled in alarm.

Iris smiled gently.

“Will do…” She nodded.

They were both interupted by the little fast pitter patter of tiny feet tearing their way through the Orangery, and a little blonde head full of hair, tangled into which was some duck egg blue ribbons, made themselves known, as the cheeky little face of Judith came into view at the end of the setee. Beaming at them both.

“Afternoon Auntie Princess Elizabeth..”

“Afternoon, Captain..” Elizabeth smiled to the little tot.

“It’s Queen, today, actually…” She insisted.

“ _Oh._ In such case, I beg a thousand pardons for my slip of the tongue, majesty…”

She beamed at the little one, who was busy plonking herself down between the two women. She was wearing the little red velvet gown which Elizabeth had gifted to her, along with stripy black and white stockings, and rather muddy red slipper son her little feet. Which hung daintily off the sofa before her.

“Auntie Lizabeth?” Judith piped up. After plucking a ginger snap from the tray and muching on it for a long second.

“Yes, My Queen?” She answered.

“Is your baby a boy or a girl?” She asked curiously. Big blue eyes blinking up at her relative.

Elizabeth chuckled.

“No word on that yet, I’m afraid. We won’t find out until the baby is born…” Elizabeth smiled in apology.

“That’s a _shame_ …” Judith mumbled. Swinging her legs.

“Well. You know something? Judith, I agree.” The Duchess smiled.

“Mama. Where do babies come from?” Judith piped up.

Iris choked on her tea. Elizabeth’s smile was bit back so she didn’t burst out laughing. And it was then, mercifully, that Agnes, a housemaid appeared in the doorway, and smiled across at the Duchess.

“Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship, Lady Iris, Miss Judith, But the Duke asked me to tell the Duchess he needs a hand, upstairs with his boots…” She relayed. Elizabeth thanked her.

“On that note, I shall take my leave of you now…”

Elizabeth beamed to a weary looking Iris, before she launched up off the sofa, and scurried away across the orangery to the north staircase.

Before she left, she heard Judith speak again. Clearly Iris was about to have a difficult conversation on her hands at the clutches from the most unswayable five year old in Britain.

“Does a lady make a baby all by herself? Or does the man do it?” Came her little question in a perfectly serious tone.

Elizabeth bit back her gleeful smile as she slid away.

 

 

~

 

 

 

spoiler pic for next chapter..

evidently, the Duke does not need a hand 'getting on his boots' but rather, I believe the term more accurately summing up his intentions is 'knocking boots'

 

 

~ Up next: A little love in the tub for a certain Duke and Duchess ~

 

 

 


	69. Baths, Estates, and Cold Dinner's...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! I was kind on hiatus, but the good news is, that I am now probably going to Uni come September! so yayyyyyyy. I was cheating on writing with work. I promise not to leave you so bereft in the future! and more of this shall be up in the next few days. much love and Thankyou for your patience. x much much love and enjoy. x

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth gently rapped her knuckles on their bedchamber door. Hearing the sound rattle through the white gilded door. Hearing nothing come from within, she frowned a little, maybe Thomas was still stranded in the library-

“Come in.” Came the sudden and all too sultry, smooth drawl, from the other side of the door. The purring tone that of her throaty, rich voiced, tall and dark husband.

She levered open the handle, and pushed the solid slab of door open. Hearing it creak and whine heavily as she did. She slid her body through the gap.

“Are you alright? Agnes told me you needed a hand with your boots-“

Her eyes downcast to her feet, She began, and when she looked up, she was instantly halted, in both speech and movement, by the sight before her. Heat prickled it’s scorching way through her veins. Trust him to be able to steal all her breath, and rational thought merely by the way he looked at her.

Evidently, the ploy that he needed a hand with his boots, was the _most massive falsehood._

Thomas was sat on his edge of the bed. His left arm out of it’s confines in a sling, he was dressed, slouching in a rumpled white cotton shirt which billowed at his sides, showing off the beautiful slabs of ivory muscle that built up his divine chest, right down to his belly she could see his skin, she could also see the bright patch of the scar from the bullet that sat painfully stark red on his milky skin, in the centre of his shoulder. His criminally long legs were clad in tight black breeches, his feet were bare. He had his usual blue gown pulled on his body, lapping at his sides. But it was the expression on his face, and the look burning away, simmering behind his blue eyes, and lurking in his smile that made her speechless and immobile. If it was even possible, he looked feral. But not in an angry way. In that hungry way of his. The deep, dark, divine way that gave away he _wanted_ his wife. And he _wanted_ his wife, _now._

She closed her gaping lips, and tried to calm her breathing, seeing he leered that wolves grin across at her, eyes glittering devilishly dark, sweeping over her delectable body that he had been denied access to for _days_ now. (it felt more like _centuries_ to him) and now that his shoulder didn’t pain him – unless he lifted something particularly weighty, he had never felt more ready to bed his delicious wife. Because there she was, not steps away from his reach. In all her full bodied, radiant, glory. With an intricate hair coiffure that needed mussing by his hand, and an exquisite dress that clung to her fine figure, which needed peeling down off her, and to be merrily reunited with the floor, where he saw it fit to belong as of now.

Elizabeth found the wisdom to speak once again.

“You do not need a hand with your boots, now, do you?” She asks, full well knowing his answer.

“Close the door…” He orders hotly. His voice a desirous rasp.

She does so. Leaning back, once hand still behind her on the handle as she presses it shut with her back. Looking across at him with a small smile on her lips. His eyes devoured how her chest strained and heaved under her gown with her breathing and pulse accelerating.

“Come here to me…”

He husks gently, tilting his head in a gesture, watching as she obeyed and swayed her body forwards to meet where he sat on the edge of their bed. She stood in front of him. Well within his reach. But he did not reach out for her, he merely watched her. He watched her like she was the most priceless and exotic thing tht had ever befallen his gaze. His mortal eyes should surely, not be worthy of appreciating such beauty as her…

She watched those daggering blue eyes she loved so much, glitter and sparkle across at her in the light of their bedchamber.

“Do you know _how long_ it has been since I last ravished you, my darling wife?” He asks her.

She smiles.

“No. But I have every confidence that you shall enlighten me..”

She beams, her hand reaching up and over to stroke back through his inky hair. He almost sighed and melted into the touch. His eyes fluttering shut for a moment, before they sprang open and surveyed her again when he started to speak. Even touching his hair, and she still managed to make him all the more _ardent_ for her.

“It has been, my love, 8 long days, 192 excruciating hours, and 11,520 awful minutes, and just to be perfectly pedantic, 69,1200 painful seconds, since I last bedded you. And, my sweet, that simply, _will not do.”_

Elizabeth smiled down at him.

“I do so adore your pragmatic brain, my love.”

She grins. Her hand still in his hair. But of which slides away and slumps to her side as he rises to his feet. Even minus boots, when he stands he still towers a full head or two higher than her. His eyes baring down on her in a way that told he she would be naked, and under him, very rather shortly. Because he was having his way with her, come what may.

His hands slid to come about her body, in a way that felt so right, it was almost mad. His shoulder strained and spasmed a little at the movement. But he hauled her into his arms, there and then, loving how her figure pressed into him, rubbing against him in a way that made him only more impatient to undress her, and pleasure her til they both dropped dead of exhaustion.

“And I am adoring you in that dress. But I’m afraid _it’ll have_ to go, for what I have in mind…”

He explains as he moves across the room, tugging her behind him. His hand gently leading her by the wrist. She stumbled as she followed him. leading her away from the bed, he didn’t even limp, he strode, tall and proud, bringing her behind him like some prepossessing caveman, dragging her to their shared washroom. She laughed as she followed unsure of what exactly his plans were. Surely he did not want to ravish her in their washing room? Surely the bed was a far more sensible location for-

But when he moved aside in front of her, his intention became plain as day. She knew their washroom boasted of a more than generous bathtub, but when she saw it steaming hot, swirled with lavender scented foam, filled to the brim with piping hot water. There were newly stacked towels piled high by the side of the claw foot tub, on the floor. The blinds were at half mast. But the room still looked bright and airy, and there were even a few candles flickering away in the daylight, stood on the dresser, or dotted about the room on various stands. Giving the room a romantic and seductive ambiance to it.

“You _cunning devil_ …”

She smiles as he brings her to a stop, throwing the washroom door closed behind her. Almost within a second he was upon her, with such impressive speed for a man who had been Injured so gravely eight days earlier, his chest crashed into her own, and she was being kissed with a force that could have outmatched passion itself. His hand came up to cradle the back of her neck, tugging her close, as his other fought valiantly with the shoulder of her gown, ripping it down over her shoulder. So surprised was she at this sudden attack of lust, she squeaks a little whimper of a moan into his mouth. Her hand floundering for a second before resting on his shoulder. The only reason her broke the scorching kiss was to spin her around, wildly, and forcing her to stop, as both his hands yanked the green fabric down to her upper arms, she gasped a laugh as she felt his hands whip her dress down past her hips to pool at her feet, forgotten as his lips came to pluck and nibble at the side of her throat from behind, his head bowing over her shoulder as he kissed her throat. She leant back into him, arching her body, her hand coming up to tug into his hair as he growled into her throat, growing harder against her lower back as his free hand wrapped around her middle, and caresses her stomach, over the silken emerald chemise she wore under her dress. Within moments they were both panting for each other. Elizabeth managed to break away from his lips on her, long enough to twist around and mash their lips together in a hot, forceful kiss, of which he gladly welcomed from her, growling into her mouth as he felt her hands shed some of his own clothes off him. He moaned, bowing his forehead to rest on her shoulder as her hands ripped away his gown, dropping it to the floor behind them, and then tried to quickly get him devoid of his shirt too. Her petite hands fiddling with the buttons, before she too could push that down over his shoulders, watching it slip away to the bare floorboards of the washroom. Leaving him perfectly half naked for her. that bare, muscled chest she loved curling up into, and hugging tight, now bare In it’s beautiful glory for her.

He watches her as she side-tracks the urgent passion for a moment, her fingers grazing near to the small diagonal wound where he had been hurt. She pours her love onto him then. Leaning close and kissing near the broken skin where the abrasion sat, he closed his eyes, holding her close, cupping her body onto him as his eyes slid shut, and he savoured the feel of her full lips laying such soft, gentle love onto his skin, amidst the heat and passion of their ardent, private moment together. He cups her close, just needing to feel her warm silken skin under his hands, and her body so near to him, it made him _hungry._ He sighed, wantonly as he smiled at what she was doing. When she pulled back, his eyes sprang open and devoured her with the look that furnaced away in them.

“I know this has been said, time and time again, and I will never cease declaring it. But Thankyou, from the bottom of my heart, for saving us both..” She whispered gently to him.

He smiles down at her, leaning in to press a sweet, fleeting kiss to her lips. His hand then slid down to caress her tummy fondly.

“You were both worth saving.” He informed her.

“…And as long as I live, my darling, please know that there is nothing on this earth, that I wouldn’t do to protect you, and my baby…”

He assures her, sweeping the straps of the silken chemise off her shoulders, watching it glide a little further down her body. He could see her rosy peaks stand to attention under the thin silk. She bit her lip as he eased it to slide a little lower all the while. Watching her with desiring eyes.

“Now…” He gruffed.

She flushed a little, blushing and averting her eyes as he slid the silken thing down and off her, revealing that she was perfectly naked underneath. _Just how he liked it…_

“Milady, our bath awaits your entrance…”

He explained, his eyes clouding, eclipsing with lust as he surveyed her beautiful bare form stood before him. He reached to her little lobes to gently pull of the glittering diamond earrings, crossing to place them safely in a little dish on the dresser. She watched him, loving the sight of his bare, muscled back as he went. Still in his breeches, clinging high, sat just to his lower back. Her husband was not a brute muscled man, he had a certain wiry elegance to his posture, but if anyone thought him without power, they’d have to think again. He could swoop her up in his arms as if she were no more heavy than a feather. And even she knew she was no heavy set girl, but she wasn’t a little slip of a woman either. Yet still, he was strong and lean without giving off the impression of being bulkily built. He was _beautiful._ Just as he was, and to her, he _always_ would be.

She decided to heed his advice, the air had a little chill to it, so she obeyed his order, and gently climbed into the tub. She raised one leg to climb in, when she felt his hand slide into her own, steadying her as she clambered in. She looked up to see him smiling at her, as she lowered herself into the pleasantly hot water. His look, the protective, gleeful one told her, one, he would very much enjoy seeing her wet and naked, and two, he did not wish her to slip and fall.

She eased herself down into the water, growing accustomed to the biting heat of it, which stung her skin a little at first, but soon turned pleasant as her body grew used to such a temperature. She shuffled her body forwards, going to occupy one end, as he would have the other, but she is stopped as he sinks into a crouch, and leans over, tipping two fingers under her chin to twist her face in his direction as he leant against the ceramic tub by her side.

“Stay _exactly_ where you are, Wife..” He orders her with a sultry wink.

“Are you certain we’ll _both_ fit in here Thomas? It is a little cramped as it is with just one, and we could spill water on the floor-.”

Her speech is halted by her own laugh. As he whipped off his breeches so fast, it was almost an incredible talent, and before she knew it, or could fathom how he had moved so speedily, there was suddenly a very naked, and muscly Duke directly behind her in the bathtub, Wrapping his arms about her, and tugging her slippery body back to press into his front. Groaning as he felt all her wonderful, wet, curves mold into his front, and more specifically, as her body tantalisingly rubbed up against his desire, which strained, prodding into her lower back.

Elizabeth chuckled, letting her head rest gently back onto his shoulder as she smiled in relaxed ecstasy, as she felt him smile into the side of her neck, they were pressed so close together. Feeling his stubbly jaw and his nose scrape against her nape was making her tingle and thrash something wicked. She purred a happy moan at his nuzzling attentions. _Oh, her husband knew exactly where to aim to make her go so very weak and mushy…_ He had but to place one kiss against her neck, or her throat, and she was perfectly malleable putty in his hands. He chuckled into her throat. Wrapping his arms about her all the more, sliding across her tummy, tangling their legs together, so she was able to feel the bristle of his leg hair brush against her smooth skinned legs. The waterline now threatened to tip over the edge of the medium sized tub they shared. She shivered in pleasure as his hands stroked up high over her body, roaming to skim over her breasts, sliding over to tantalize her collarbone, slipping to brush up to the silky skin of her bare shoulders, twirling circles on her soapy wet skin. Savouring her, like she deserved to be savoured. The scent of lavender and fresh, clean soap filling their senses. The vapour from the heated water making their exposed skin foggy with heat. The way his body is misbehaving so ardently, means he has to fight not to rut his hips into her, or, failing that, slide her even further up him, and slide her down onto his thick, hard length to truly ravish her like his mind was crying out to. But he doesn’t. She is too beautiful like this, all contented and relaxed. And he drinks her in. Relaxing along with her.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re all relaxed, and carefree….” Elizabeth mumbles aloud as Thomas presses a kiss into her neck.

“So when I am working and stressed, I turn into a malformed swine?” He asks with humour.

She chuckled before she answered.

“Not at all. I just mean, I like seeing you happy…” She grins.

“Elizabeth, I met you, courted you, and now I am married to you. You are carrying my child. There is not a moment that goes by not day, nor night since I learnt your name, when I am not happy, so long as you are near.” He answers simply. “As long as I am, I will love you.” He explains softly. Still kissing her neck.

“I love you too.” She confesses. “ _God, Thomas_ , I love you more potently than anything I’ve ever known. And I adore each day that I look down on my hand and see the little reminder of you there in my wedding ring. And the little life inside of me that I stroke across my belly and think of you. The happiness is almost too much…” She smiles. Though he already knew that.

“I can’t wait to meet our little lemon too…”

He smiles, his hands skimming low, the massive things completely covering her petite belly as he stroked her there. There was a slight little ridge forming where the child grew. But when she put on clothes, it disappeared, it was still early stages. And he could not wait to see her when she was a little heavier, he’d adore her even more, because she would be gorgeous and show stopping at any size, to him.

“You’re going to be such a wonderful mother, Elizabeth. You will be completely brilliant at it. Like everything else you do. I just know it. You’ll play mad games, and encourage them towards books, you’ll be completely stubborn when you need to be, and utterly delightful when it calls for it.” He predicted.

She smiled, chuckling a little at that.

“Do you think it is a boy? Or a girl? Which would you rather?” She asks out of pure curiosity.

“I know I’m supposed to pay mind to the norms of the age, and _demand_ from you a boy so as that I have a male heir. But I care not one bit for that stupid tradition, be it a boy, or a girl. Regardless of sex, that is my child, and I will love whatever they are. Whomever they turn out to be. If it is a girl, I will buy her dresses and dolls and ribbons til she is blue in the face. I will go to every single tea party and drink as much imaginary tea as she forces me too…”

“Had plenty of practice?” She asks knowingly.

He nodded, and they both spoke, laughing a ‘Judith’ in unison.

“..And if I have managed to have a son, then he shall have a father who teaches him to play cricket, to always be polite to ladies, and I will let him wear me out with as many raucous games and sports as he can think of.”

She raised his hand to her lips, and kissed it for a long second. He hummed appreciatively smiling as he felt her mouth brush his skin.

“Who will Chatsworth be entailed away upon if we have a little girl?”

Elizabeth asked in wonder and curious dread. As the eldest child would doubtless inherit, and Duke’s did not pass their estates down onto daughters, the family home they knew and loved would be sold away out of the family should they have a baby girl come February. The thought of loosing Thomas at some point, decades from now tore her heart to shreds. But, it was a question that needed asking to sate her rational mind. It was probably some oaf of an elderly cousin, far off in the Kenworthy family tree. Who would swoop in and seize the house and lands out from under her families feet if they had a girl and – heaven forfend – the day came when Thomas Kenworthy no longer walked this earth.

Thomas grinned.

“ _You._ ” He beams.

Elizabeth blinked. Unsure if she had heard him correctly. She sat up a little, and twisted about to face him. His face wore a perfectly sincere smile, and his cheeks were rosy and his eyes burned bright and gleeful. His chest bare and partially eclipsed by the water. He was half covered in suds, and yet he still managed to look as masculine and handsome as possible.

“I’m sorry. I think I may have _water_ in my ears. But to me that sounded suspiciously for a moment as if you said ‘ _you’_ as in, _‘me’_ …” She rambled.

Thomas smiled over at her stuttering state.

“Then let me speak plainly….” He began, clearing his throat.

“Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, My darling, My heart, My love. Mother of my unborn child, friend to all, small children, grown, elderly and in-between. When I shuffle off this mortal coil, even if our first child, is a little girl, when I am six feet deep, the house, the staff within, and all the surrounding grounds, and the money I leave behind, shall all be entailed, to _you._ ” He explained plainly.

Her mouth gaped.

“How? Doesn’t the law prevent you from leaving an estate to a female…”

“The law can change. My darling. I am a Duke. It is my home, and I want to leave it, and my money, to the best lady I know. Ergo, You.” He smiles.

“Can you do that?”

“I can _do_ whatever I like…” He winked like a rascal.

“Stop being randy for _one second_ whilst I process this. You’ve left all of Chatsworth, grounds, money, _everything…_. _to me?”_ Elizabeth asked again.

“Yes. Even if we have a son. If he does not wish to take it as a living, nor the title. As far as the law goes, it’s yours… And even if we do have a son, and he grows up to take it. You shall be included on every document to do with ownership of this grand old place alongside him. When you become the Dowager Countess of Chatsworth, and he becomes the reigning Duke, he shall not be able to take sole possession. Because I will have written you in upon my will and testament as one of the rightful owners. And that is above the reaches of any contestation.” He assured.

“Is that legal?” She askes with incredulity.

“ _Perfectly legal_. Not common, I grant. Most men leave estates to their sons, or it passes to the greedy cousin in the family. So, not _conventional,_ perhaps, I’m aware. But completely legal.” He smiles. “There is no law of today that says I cannot divide my estate and fortune between my wife and my future son.” He offered.

“… and I’ve never been _a true follower_ of convention in my life, anyway. So Why start now?” He beams.

She blinked. Her mouth gaping wide again.

“You astound me…” She whispers.

“I plan to keep on being able to do so.” He rewards.

She leaned into him then, tucking her front to his, one hand on his chest, careful not to clip his wound, and she kissed him. Long, slow, put passionately and hard. His hands come up to slip down her back, clutching onto her as her ardent kiss began to fire his blood.

That’s what Thomas loved best about his wife. One kiss from her could change the tone. One minute they could be pouring love and poetry into one another’s hearts, but the next, she could kiss him, and all he would know, and all he would _ever want_ to know, was that he needed to grab her, and ravish her, and love her, more than he needed his next breath. And right now, he wanted her so much, that eight days worth of missing her touch, and her intimacy, comes swooping in on swift wings and claims him. And now, he had to claim her. No way around it. _He had to have her._

“Would you like to, _astound me_ a little more, right now, this very second?”

She asks in a lusty tone against his lips. Smiling like a vixen. Her blue eyes flaring with lust and love.

He growls, hot and insistent against her lips. And before she could register, his hands viced against her hips, and all in one swift move he lowers her completely onto his rigid length, stretching her wide, completely invading her in one smooth lunge. She groaned, stumbling for words as he watched her face crease in a soundless gasp of pleasure, sinking further down onto him, and into the water, some of which sloshed onto the floor with their violent movement. He bit his lip, wickedly with one hand he ground her hips down onto him in a slow, wide circle, stimulating all the pleasurable spots he knew how to hit just right. His other reached for the bar of soap just off to his right in the soap dish, and he lathered up his hands, and then, they were roaming all over her, wandering down her arms as he folded them across his neck, forcing her to sit up even further, swaying her body closer into him. Which he delighted at, his slippery soapy hands slid across her wet back, watching her buck and writhe above him, pleasure dancing in her eyes, as she groaned at how he was making love to her. He tugged her lower back to press down further on him, heightening her desire, and also, serving to sway her delectably full breasts down to him, as she sat above him. She groaned, loudly, feeling his lips move across her then, sucking the sweet tasting drops of water off her, alternating between tasting the sweet tang of her skin, and lapping her rosy peaks with his tongue. It was a heady and delightful combination, to her mind. And it makes him throb inside her, biting back groans of his own at how this felt.

It was all so good, she was so wet, and she felt twice as heavenly under his touch when she was all soapy, and lathered up. His hand slipping and sliding across her, groping and grabbing at her, just like she was him, joined, knotted and tangled together in pleasure, rocking closer to ecstasy, his lips eventually abandoned her full, heavy breasts, and then concentrated on her neck. Gods, he loved her throat. How had he never noticed before that his wife had such a heavenly, creamy skinned neck? It was always soft, and warm. Her skin silken, and hot. And he adored nuzzling into her, making her gasp and smile when he did. And then he can’t help it, sinful, dirty little words trip from his lips before he can stop them. Soaking onto her soapy wet skin as he kisses her there. The scent of her washed, warm, wet lavender infused skin making him move all that much closer to completion. And the way she moaned above him, almost made _him twice_ as hard.

“Gods, you’re _so beautiful_ Elizabeth. _You’re so beautiful like this._ You’re _so wet for me darling_ , and you feel so very good like this, being pleasured, riding me into your climax.”

He growls against her skin, His words sinking into her neck like osmosis. As he tugged her, and she writhed and rode, and handed back just as much pleasure, and desire, as he was giving her. She hangs onto him tight, his free hand going back to vicing her hip, as the other, massive hand of his cupped the back of her neck. Helping her, move herself into her sexual frenzy. And she was weakening him too, every buck of her hips left him gasping and moaning for more, more movement, more of her moaning his name as he took her. _More everything._ Definitely more pleasure on his part, the way she tightened and spasmed around him like a wet, red hot fist made him know he was so close now, he could scarcely hold back, but as she rocks faster and harder, he knows this will lead them both to the pleasurable ends they both yearn for.

She tilts her head to the side, sighing, and her voice growing higher in pitch, her expression growing more pleasured, and as he circles her hips down on him one last time, arching his back up to brush his length further into her, they both shatter. They both find a little hidden place to get lost in each others eyes, before his hand at the back of her neck, yanks her close and kisses her through their climaxes. Moaning and groaning, shouting loud onto each others lips, into their mouths as they panted and shuddered, not fighting the mind numbing bliss that spread through them both. She sucked him in deep, and his pleasure left him gasping her name, feeling how he came undone inside her, hot and thick, emptying deep and hard up into her until he slumped back, boneless and sated. She braced herself forwards, head bowed, panting, fogging up his neck with her breath, hands bracing either side of the tub as his arms soothed her, wrapping around her as he pressed kisses and soft words onto the side of her throat. Groaning in happiness and the breathlessness that their sating each others desire left them with. Whenever they made love, it was always the same, the pleasure was almost blinding, it felt too much. It felt like inexplicable waves of delight ran, hot and forceful through every pore. Everything seemed to spiral out of their reach for a long moment. And all they could both do was lock eyes, and know that the passion and love they shared, was electric, and all consuming. And how lucky were they, to find the missing halves they had longed for, in the other.

It was when they both began to shiver, that they realised the water they bathed in, had long since grown cold. So, with that, they clambered out. Thomas helpfully guiding his wife out, again, so she did not slip and inure herself or their child. And they defended themselves against the chill in the air – they were still warmed and a little breathless from their lovemaking after all – they ensconced themselves in large fluffy towels. Thomas, with his wrapped round his lean, trim hips, as he dried his dripping, inky hair with the other. And Elizabeth, who sat perched on the edge of the bath, had hers swathing her naked, pale body. She had left her hair pinned in coiled atop her head, but her artful coiffure had drooped and sagged, and a few curls had been dipped in the water, stuck, coiled against her nape. It was then her husband did something truly touching, where she sat on the lip of the bath, he sank to his knees in front of her, and slowly, took out pin by pin until her hair cascaded in a fiery flow down her naked back. And then he linked a towel across the back of her shoulders, still kneeling, and rubbed together, drying the coils of her hair that had gotten wet. Rubbing his hands together, lovingly caressing her head. She laughed at him, even when he became cheeky and used the towel looped about her neck to link her closer and press numerous kisses to her face, peppering them across her neck and cheeks. Making her laugh as he wouldn’t stop doing so. He only stopped when she scooped up a handful of bubbles from where they had drained the bath. And slapped the handful directly into his face, giving his delightful jaw a dusting of soapy bubbles. He paused, looking across at her with mirth in his eyes as he glared at her. About to declare war, until she bopped him directly across the face with a towel. He fought back laughter, hauling her into his arms. They were giggling and playing as if they were naughty schoolchildren.

“No! No, put me down! Where are we going now?!”

She asks laughing. Folded into his arms in a fireman's carry, as he whisked her away into their bedroom, collapsing them into a giggled heap of limbs, and drying skin onto the bed.

“You need _punishing_ , for that, my sweet..”

He growls, kissing down her shoulders and neck. She throws her head back, laughing as he rips the towel away, getting her all naked and bare again, pressed to the mattress under the bracket of his arms. She giggles as his stubble stimulates her ticklish skin.

“Thomas, we have to dress for dinner soon!”

She points out. Trying to swat him away as he nuzzled kisses into her belly, his damp hair tickling her ribs as he pressed kisses onto her scented drying skin.

He paused, thinking for a moment. Before he gave her that wolves grin again.

“I ordered dinner on a tray tonight, Wife. We have all night…” He assures her.

She gasps at that subterfuge. But also because he started to kiss lower and lower, reaching the hot, wet centre of what lay between her lovely rounded thighs. His tongue snuck out to taste her, sliding through, parting her folds, and finding that little wet pearl of her, perfectly beaded tight and ready for more. Which he would spend _all night_ giving. Murmering down between her thighs how she tasted _so very lovely_ after their bath.

Amazingly, The maid who brought them up dinner, leaving the tray outside the Duke and Duchesses bedroom door (and trying her best to ignore the sounds of bed sheets rustling and gasps coming from behind the heavy door found) and to her, not complete amazement, she found the tray was still there, untouched, and cold _two hours_ later _._

 _Oh well_. Agnes sighed, smiling to herself, heaving the tray into her hands and going back to the kitchens. _She’d be sure to bring them an extra large breakfast an hour or two earlier than their usual time. They’d be hungry by then…._

 _….And finished_ , she hopes…

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some idea of where this story is going to go from here, btw, but, I would gladly welcome any prompts you guys, my lovely readers may have, small or big (obviously they will soon have a baby) But I was just curious... anything you guys would like to see happen in their lives? it could be dirty, clean, innocent, loving sad whateeevvvveerrrrr tickles your fancy. Message me, let me know. let's get some creative juices flowing, ey?.... love y'all oodles and oodles... xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
> 
> \- author  
> x


	70. Games, Sanctuary's and Sentimental Dukes...

 

 

 

 

~ Thomas's Waistcoat and Cravat ~

~ Elizabeth's Dress ~

~ Elizabeth's new study - decorated by the Duke himself ~

 

~ Three Weeks, and a Day Later, A Cunning Duke Leads his Duchess, Blindfolded – by his own hand- to a Surprize. Which, is has to be said, the cloaked secret of such proves to irk her most greatly….

~

 

“Thomas!”

Elizabeth chides as they walk along, she threw her hands in the air in exasperation. He had dragged her out of the Family dining room like this. Making Edith and Judith giggle in delight at the silly antics of her husband. And now, they hobbled along, her visually impaired as his hand was linked across her eyes. Compromising her vision. She was completely at his mercy as he led her along, the pair of them _waddling_ like penguins as they walked. Him behind her, guiding her along. In actual fact, _Thank god_ she _couldn’t see,_ because she had a feeling they both looked very stupid at the moment…

She had heard a couple of bemused members of staff pass them by. Hearing them bid the Duke and Duchess a cheery, yet confused stuttering _‘Good Morning’_ which Thomas chirped sunnily back to them. Returning their warm greeting. She was certain, by now, the whole of the kitchen staff would think them _a little mad_ and eccentric…

“Thomas. This is ridiculous... Where on earth are you _taking me?”_

Elizabeth asks her husband. Grinning as the fool had his hands across her face still. Blinded, and being led wherever he wanted to lead her for this god founded ‘ _Surprize’_ he had declared he wished to delight her with…

“The Element of surprize is a notion _lost on you_ , dear wife, _is it not?”_

He comments drily not removing his hand from linking across her eyes, leading her down an airy and lit hallway, the wall to floor windows drenching both their bodies in noon day sunlight. Today, Thomas looked a most fetching gentleman, he had dressed in his usual black breeches with gold buttons and instead of black boots, today he wore brown ones, and on his top half, he wore a fawny brown tweed waistcoat, under which he wore a white shirt rolled down to his wrists with his fathers cufflinks gleaming in the sun, along with his pocket watch linked across his front, with a white polka dotted navy cravat knotted neatly about his neck. His hair was doing it’s usually curled, floopy arrangement, hanging like silk obsidian down his neck, and though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew they were vibrant and jovial with his little prearranged plan.

He twisted them both to the right, making her stumble as she was thrown about and lead like a floppy puppet on strings, her arms swaying as he brought her sharply right, one massive hand stroking down over her baby bump, which had grown all the more prominent now, over the past couple of weeks it had really gotten bigger, a couple more weeks and there would be no hiding it so easily. As it was now, when she sat, her gaping dress mostly hid it anyway. She delighted in the feel of her husbands hands running low on her tummy where the little lemon slept soundly, and peacefully. Today, his lovely wife wore one of René Làndry’s exquisite dresses, a silver silk dress, sprouting and swirling all over, stitched with pink silk roses, blue blossoms and green silken leaves. With ¾ length sleeves, draped with lace. She looked homely, and stunning, her hair pulled into a messy coiled arrangement from her face, curls springing down her neck and by her ears and forehead. The back of her tumbling red locks were held in place with a square diamond studded clip she had found as a gift from her husband on her pillow one evening, with a little love note telling her he _loved it_ beyond measure and reason when she wore her hair up. So he could better see her gorgeous pale neck of hers that he adored. To kiss. Nuzzle into. And to savour the aroma of her perfume that always sat there, for him to find, on her hot silken skin. His hand slid round from feeling their little lemon, to come to her lower back. His hands were so big, they cradled her petite frame with dwarfing ease, she especially loved it when he smoothed his hands over the baby bump.

 _And that reminded her,_ she _really_ needed next week to come on _swift wings_ , for her family were promised to head up from London for a holiday and what better than a visit to their stately home to see their recently departed daughter and her new handsome husband, and their grandchild-to-be in Derbyshire. Her stepmother, her father, and Felicity were promised to come. Aswell as Violet, and whilst Thomas was at it, he had twisted Benedict into popping up for a visit also. Though he would be a day or two later than the Farrow’s, for he had already been engaged on a hunting venture back home with his brother, Christopher, at their family home in Buckinghamshire. But he had wrote that he would definitely be in attendance a day or two behind the Farrow and Miss Burchrowe party arrived at Chatsworth. Her and Thomas had been cunning and left news of her pregnancy saved from any letter’s, to tell them all face to face in person to savour in their reactions after they arrived.

“I refuse to answer that.”

She offered, smiling as he tugged her down another hallway. She knew her home well, but now, even she was disorientated. And his eagerness to delight her was trying on her patience. Though she tried to remain genial about it…

“Thomas. Where could you _possibly_ be taking me that I don’t know about? I know most of the rooms that make up this house, _you know…_ ” She informed.

 _“Which is more than you, fancy forgetting where the Blue Parlour is…”_ She scoffed quietly in amusement to herself under her breath.

“ _Bite your tongue_ …”

He grinned as he swatted her ass as penance. She squeaked a little, biting her lip at that.

 _“And it isn’t my fault all the damn salons and parlours look the same…”_ He grumped.

“You haven’t been where we’re going now, before. I know that much about you...”

He beamed, she could sense him, smiling close down by her neck. She could feel the heat rolling off him, at how close he was. She could smell the cresting waft of his cologne shift in the air, brushing over her. The smell that both calmed and warmed her when she detected it.

“ _Oh,_ _please_ tell me!”

She laughed, begging, trying to pry his hand away and off her face, both hands coming up to try and get his hands to shift, either that, or peek through the gaps in his long fingers which were wrapped around her face at present.

“Patience is a virtue, _Wife_...” He growled naughtily into her ear.

“You are upsetting the mother of your unborn child here, _Husband_ …” She fought back with a smile.

“Low blow, Mrs K. And you’ve pulled that excuse out of the bag far too often as of late…”

He offered. As he walked them down a familiar dark hallway. She would instantly know where she was had he allowed her to see.

“I have not!” She protested.

“You have too..” He fought.

“I haven’t!” She tried insisting

“You used it the other night at dinner in order to wrangle yourself the last slice of treacle tart which _I_ had set _my_ eyes on.” He pointed out.

Elizabeth was sheepishly silent.

“I did? Didn’t I…” She asked rhetorically, smiling.

Thomas smiled in pride at winning the argument. Nodding proudly. Even though she couldn’t see it.

“It was for the baby...” She held out.

“A skilful handy little excuse..”

“Do you wish to further cause distress the mother of your unborn child?” She argued.

Thomas sighed.

“You’re a tenacious mare, aren’t you?” He asked.

She smiled wide.

“So my husband _always_ tells me…” She beams.

“He sounds like a reasonable and acutely sensible man…” Thomas japed.

“Handsome too… Divinely kind…” She grinned dreamily.

“I was just going to say…” Thomas leered.

He leaned in close to whisper hotly into her ear.

“Tell me, is he a _good lover_ in bed too? I bet he is great, I bet he makes your _shake the rooftiles down…”_ He growled.

Elizabeth grinned. She was blind, but not so soft in the head as to answer that. Especially not as he had his purring, dark voice turned on.

“Are we there yet?” She asked.

He sighed.

“You never did master the art of flowing and changing conversational topics, did you?”

“My debutantes fault. _That,_ and, _ah yes._ _Everything else_ I learnt about being a debutante – according to Mrs Sharpe. She said once, and I quote _‘It would have been easier to train a donkey how to behave in society’_ ” She joked.

“Yes. But I think you look _infinitely nicer_ in ball gowns…”

“How very kind of you…” She spoke lowly and wryly

“Though I think the Donkey would make a more agreeable dance partner…” Thomas ribbed her with a smile. a proverbial elbow in the ribs.

Her smile dropped, and she frowned against his hand.

“I’ll use the ‘Mother of your child’ excuse again…” She warned.

 

“….And, enlighten me, Husband, how many barnyard nags have had the pleasure of gracing the dance floor by your side?” She asked.

“Well. I was once, one year, wrangled, wrestled and forced to take a dance with Sophie Richworth…”

He informed her, talking about the horrid girl who used to bully Elizabeth when she had first come out in society.

She chuckled heartily.

“A fine recovery, Mi’Lord…”

He patted her bottom as a reward.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.. Now…”

He paused. Clearing his throat. Bracing one hand on her shoulder as he suddenly twisted her to come to a stop. Standing her still as the other hand didn’t peel itself away from her eyes. She reached her hands out in front of her, her palms feeling the wooden plane of a door. Gilded, like all the others in the house were.

“A door…” She spoke in revelation.

“Brains and beauty. _Curses,_ I married a _judicious_ Philly…” He joked.

“ _Thomas_ …”

She whined in a smiling laugh. Her patience was growing weaker.

“Alright, alright…” He smiles, he leans in front of her, and slowly grabs and twists the door knob, pushing the wood to swing inwards, opening the door, they both heard it whine as it was pushed inwards. Thomas then reinforced the blindfold of his hands across her eyes, and used his body to lever her forwards, again, waddling them to hobble forwards like a pair of hugging penguins. Elizabeth’s senses were heightened as he walked her into the _’new’_ room, she could feel the air in here was warm, and scented of… she inhaled a deep breath _, roses?_

“Wherever we are, I can smell roses…” She spoke out.

Thomas smiled.

“Nose like a bloodhound _, you_ …” He grinned.

“Blame _your baby_ for that…” She awarded over her shoulder.

Thomas chuckled. But he couldn’t but help agreeing with her statement. They had both been reading a few books and information on pregnancy, trimesters and birth together, and he had read that when a woman becomes with child, that The plasma volume - the blood flow - in a pregnant woman’s body increases by up to 50 per cent, so anything moving from his wife's blood to her brain would reach it faster, and in larger quantities. This in turn would heighten her responses, and her sense of smell. Which he had found out, the other evening at dinner, she accurately predicted that they were having beef stew, just from one whiff from the kitchens. And they did. She had even said it had too much pepper in it. _Which it did_. It was _truly remarkable._

“Yes. Congratulations. Darling. There are roses in this room..”

He smiled. He knew champagne coloured roses were her favourite. So he had to include a large bunch of them, in a glass vase, placed into her entire gift.

“Can you not lower your hand now?” She asks in a heartfelt plea.

“Not quite..” He teases, his scorching breath rolling over her shoulder

“Almost?” She asks hopefully.

“ _Almost._.” He awards her. Needing just one more second to move her further into the room.

He had been keeping this a secret for almost a month now, ever since she first arrived here, as his Missus. He had decided, there and then, seeing that whilst Ophelia, Edith, Judith and Iris had their own spaces to be, and he had his office, it occurred to him, that his darling new wife didn’t yet have a space of her own – not anymore it would seem. He had kept her away from this part of the house, had plagued Iris in secret over colour swatches for paint, and fabrics for the curtains and the furnishings. He had then smuggled in paint and a carpenter to lay the floor with a soft wool floor covering. He had snuck out of bed one night, and painted the room by candlelight for her. And slipped back into bed after he was finished, of course, he lost a bit of time to the _shooting incident_ , but as soon as he was upright again, he was back in here, making it nice for her to have when it was eventually done. He put the curtains up himself, cursing and bruising himself many times in the process – he had a wobbly ladder from the stable hands, and fell off it _atleast three times_ trying in vain to hang the damn curtains straight. He had borrowed her books back from upstairs, and brought many more for her – from Edith’s recommendations – to fill the shelves in this room. _Her room_. A study, come library, and parlour. All in one. A place entirely all her own. A sanctuary. It had taken a while, four weeks of hard work, a couple of sleepless nights, and a few _(several)_ splinters in his hands, and scrubbing paint spots from his hands, boots and clothes so she wouldn’t get suspicious. But _finally, it was finished_. Decorated finely with all the things he knew she liked, and – _for his sake_ \- hoped she loved what he had accomplished.

“Elizabeth Kenworthy. Welcome to your merry little, own, _private corner_ of Chatsworth House…”

Thomas smiled, dropping both hands away from her eyes, linking his big hands to the front of her silky hips as he stood behind her. Watching her take in the room before her. Watching her with a wide smile as he could tell from her speechlessness, that _she adored it._ That was all the praise he needed.

Her mouth dropped open in a most gleeful and exultant smile.

This was the most beautiful room yet, in all of Chatsworth. Even including the grand foyer and the Raphaelite painted ceiling, even the exquisite gardens, and the breath taking orangery. They all took second place to this room. It was _perfect._ The walls shrouded in a lovely, warm shade of yellow, white ornate bookshelves crowded with volumes of masterful novels and works. Al her favoruite authors, she could see. The furnishings all looked deep and lush, comfy enough to sink into and merrily read the day away in. There was a desk too, which she could use for letter writing, not having to borrow Iris’s. There were fresh vases of flowers on almost every surface, and golden yellow curtains lining the huge windows which threw air and light into the space before her, nicely so. The room was bright, comfortable and divinely decorated. It was amazing. And it was all her own.

She turned back to Thomas.

“You did _all of this_ , for _me?”_ She asked astoundedly.

Thomas shrugged in a carefree way, smiling at her.

“I could have hired people, decoraters and painters from Castleton. But, that seemed too _impersonal._ _Too careless_. Any idiot can order people about to do something. I wanted to do this for you. Make you _your own_ space here. Everyone else has theirs. You deserved yours. I hope you like it. Iris helped me with the fabrics, for all my numerous virtues, my tastes in fabrics are _unremittingly pitiable_ at best. I painted the walls, very badly, fell off the ladder atleast twice cause I am just such a suave gentleman. And Edith _– of course_ – helped with _the books,_ though she was very thorough in making it clear that you can use her library upstairs anytime still, she was _very adamant_ about that. Iris also chose the colours. Matter of fact, the only thing in the room I chose, was the desk and the roses, and the pink velvet cushions…” He informed, smiling down at her.

Elizabeth smiled at him.

“You picked out pink velvet cushions for me?” She asked lovingly.

“Well. The blue looked far too _cheap_ …” He joked.

Elizabeth pulled him into close and into a deep, appreciative kiss.

“You’re incredible, Thomas Kenworthy. You can save me from bullets, paint rooms, pick out pink cushions, fix horse carts, host imaginary tea parties, build Judith a pirate ship, speak fluent Latin with Edith, and still amaze me with your complete and utter brilliance on a daily basis.” She smiles.

“You like it?” He asks.

“I adore it. and you.” She breams. Hugging him close.

“Want to know the best part?” He asks her cunningly.

“What’s that?” She asks.

He strolled across the room, and walked up to a small section of the wall, on which hung one a sketch by her favourite Pre-Raphaelite artist, Everett Millais. He then pressed down on the skirting that led round the middle of the wall, and she watched as the wall swung away, revealing a door, which swung open, and as she peered through. She saw a very familiar desk and a organised office. Furnished with dark wood and of which bore a small silver picture frame on the desk, and in that picture, sat a portrait of a rather familiar red headed woman.

It was a doorway leading straight to his own office.

“A sentimental touch…” He admitted.

“You old softie.” She grinned.

“Guilty as charged…”

Elizabeth frowned then, pointing out of the door.

“But, we were in the breakfast room. That’s not two metres down the hall from here…” She pointed out.

Thomas grinned, slowly.

“Took you the long way round to disorientate you..” He admitted. Tugging her close and kissing her forehead.

“ _Agh._ Cunning, and can pick out Pillows. I’d best watch it, that could be a slippery slope to boosting your ego.”

He smiled, looking amused at that.

“You’re safe. I think I shall stay out of decorating and interior design. I’ll leave that up to you. Dearest. I trust your judgement far better. Plus, you probably won’t fall off ladders as much as I did. Nor get as many splinters..” He admitted, showing her his calloused and slightly scarred hands.

She tilted her head, looking empathetic. Bringing his hand close and kissing it. curling his palm up thereafter, as if to capture the kiss where it lay.

“Stick to your strengths then, my darling. For you have many others to contend with…” She offered.

He raised a perfectly arched dark brow.

“Such as?” He enquired.

“ _Oh,_ you know what I mean…” She flirted.

He grinned, wide.

“You’re flirting with me..”

Elizabeth grinned, as he hugged her close and leaned down to kiss her neck.

“You’re positively irresistibly _alluring_ when you flirt with me…” He beams

“You’d make a fine rake, Sir…” Elizabeth warns.

“I want that written on my tombstone of you'd be so good…”

He requests. Before he leaned down, and shut her up with a good, long, very skilfull kiss.

 

After all, _that definitely_ was one of his _strengths_ ….

 

~

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more coming soon: we shall have a private walk with Elizabeth and the Dashing Reverend...


	71. Coercion, Nieces and Planks...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More is, of course, on the way... feat Revie Everett. But for now, I have a new idea, for each chapter, at the bottom of the page, I will be introducing a new concept. I shall be putting some fun facts about a character - any character - relevant to the story. So I hope you enjoy this new little concept of mine, it's certainly fun to write.... let me know what you think! x

 

 

 

~

Thomas heard the knock come through his office door as he sat frowning at some puzzling letters on his desk. Grievances of the renters on his land, chimney problems, a leaking roof, and sums for a new barn to be built. All things he had to address as the landowner…

“Come in..”

He called, absentmindedly to the door ahead of him. Not looking up, but still frowning at the papers fanned out below him. One hand was rubbing across his forehead, and the other was braced across his desk. He could feel his temples strain as he tried to tot up the numbers and cost for the repairs, shifting his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose.

A noise ahead of him in the doorway caught his attention, and he looked up to see his gorgeously stunning flame haired wife stand before him, smiling as she was pulling on a sky blue velvet jacket, dressed as she had been earlier in the silver, flower printed, silk dress, except now she had pulled on a short blue overcoat, and was just wrapping a green shawl about her shoulders.

“Iris has gone to call on Lenora Swindle, she has fallen ill with a cold. I offered to take Edith and Judith out through Chatsworth woods for a walk and some air. Would you care to join us?”

She asked in a smile, obediently rounding the desk as he grinned and gestured her closer.

Thomas smiled as he threw his glasses way across his desk. Tugging his wife closer, smoothing his hands across her silken belly. Looking up at her with that dreamy smile that she would always love on his lips, and the love that furnaced away for her in his eyes. He gave no answer but reeling her closer, and burying his nose into her baby bump, and kissing her there. Pulling back her smiled ack up at his beautiful wife. As she carted a hand through the back of his head.

“I’d love too, but I’ve a mountain of work stacked up here, to try my best to sort through…It has been piling up in its tonnes since my little injury…”

He explains, an empathetic look crossing his face as his hand reached for her own, and placed kisses up her wrist, across her hand.

“Judith will be _most_ aggrieved to hear of that...I trust you understand she’ll have you walk the plank for such treacherous disloyalty …” Elizabeth warned with a kind smile.

Thomas smiled at her for a second, before he took the hand he had been kissing, and pulled, twirling her in a circle, pulling her back as she laughed as that meant he had spun her into his lap. Her back pressed to the arm of his chair as her legs then folded over his leg, and her hands came about the back of his neck, clutching on as his hand hooked to the back of her waist, and the other came to smooth up her thigh, instantly sliding to her stomach to find the little baby bump again. He couldn’t help it. _He loved_ touching his wife, _fullstop_ , but caressing her knowing that she was carrying his baby... it still made him only all the _more giddy_ to think of such a thing.

“Then you had best soak up the remaining time I still have left whilst my life isn’t under duress from Captain Judith.” Thomas warned, leering down at her with his most best, and handsome smile, which made her go all gooey inside.

He kissed her then, his large hand sliding down the column of her thigh as he gave her a long, hot kiss that made her toes curl and her heart do funny flip-flopping things in her chest.

When he finally pulled back for breath, Elizabeth pants a smile as she clutches onto the back of his neck. Not wanting such distance between them, he leans in to press fluttery little kisses against her neck as she groaned, her eyes sliding closed as she smiles, sighing in bliss at how he was making her feel. She halts his advancing hand which had somehow – he always managed to – find the hem of her skirts, and try to sneak under her skirts, and slide up her leg. Her thighs clamp down on his hand as she gasps at him, and he gives her that naughty, hot smile of his.

“Attempt to behave yourself…” Elizabeth chides. “What about all this work you have to do?”

She points out as he nuzzled into her neck again. _She smelt so nice_. And he loved making her go all giddy and breathless. And her pale cheeks go all rosy and delightfully flushed. Her blue eyes would flare, wild and brightened with her desire, and well. _It wasn’t as if they hadn’t made love in this room before…_ His lustful mind thought back to once upon a time, shortly after they first arrived back at Chatsworth, he had stayed up, burning the midnight oil, going over some papers, and she had tiptoed through the house to find him, only in her nightgown. And well, long story short, they had consumated their love right there on his desk in his candlelit office– _twice._ His body grew restless and hungry just thinking about the aforesaid time. And she was here again now, looking as alluring as she always did. And he rather thought they should make that _twice_ turn into a _thrice._

“At present. _Dear._ You’ve jumped straight to the top of all _my to-do_ lists…” He groaned, nipping down on her neck.

Elizabeth tried not to groan as his hot tongue tantalised the weak spots that her knew all of which sat on her neck.

“Thomas Kenworthy…” Elizabeth chided.

He chuckled against her neck.

“I love it when you half heartedly get _stern_ with me, Milady..” He smiles.

“There are children in the near vicinity…” Elizabeth warned.

Thomas pulled away frowning.

“No there aren’t…” He pointed out.

Elizabeth raised one wry brow of disbelief at him.

The little pitter patter of feet proved him wrong. And all of a sudden, a wild Judith and the willowy frame of Edith appeared in his study doorway. Both girls kitted out in their coats, Edith with her bonnet on, and Judith wearing her little walking boots. Ready to go. Smiling cheekily at the sight of their Aunt and Uncle entwined. Elizabeth draped across her husbands lap. Thomas groaned internally at that. Smiling as is two nieces across his study.

“Are we going now? Auntie Princess Elizabeth…”

“Indeed we are, my poppet..” Elizabeth smiled, trying to heave herself up. Off her devious husbands lap, though she noticed he tried to keep her pinned there.

“Who are these brazen women competing for your attention?” Thomas asked Elizabeth in a japing manner. As she slid off his lap and came to stand.

“Are you coming with us, Uncle Thomas?” Judith asked hopefully. Peering up over his desk on her tiptoes.

“Alas. My Queen. Work keeps me from enjoying the exquisite grace of your company…” Thomas apologised. Laying a hand over his heart to show he was truly sorry for such a heinous crime.

“What will I do without my favourite Jester?” Judith asked.

Thomas smiled at her.

“Tell you what. How about we come to an accord? I will finish my work, _one_ more hour, and then after you return from your walk, I promise I will play pirates and princesses with you to your little hearts content… Deal?” Thomas asked, holding out his hand.

Judith considered It for a long moment, before she burst into a little grin, and heartily shook his hand.

“If you do not, I shall… make you walk the plank…” She threatened. Pointing a little finger at him hardheartedly.

“I _warned_ you…” Elizabeth smiled across at him

“That you did, Mrs K, that you did…” He smiled to her in a sigh.

“Shall we get going then, your majesty?” Elizabeth asked holding out her hand. Judtih grinned up at her beautiful Aunt, and happily sidled over and place her little hand in Elizabeth’s own.

“You’re my favourite…” Judith not so quietly whispered to Elizabeth, who chuckled down at the little one.

“I’m honoured…” Elizabeth smiled.

Edith smiled over at her uncle, before she walked off behind the other two. Thomas heard them his wife speak as they got out into the hall.

“So, Edith, what book are we reciting today?” She asked. Full well knowing the girl never went _anywhere_ without a book. Tucked in her pocket, or hidden in a reticule.

“Today, I fancied a little bit of Christina Rossetti…” Edith remarked.

“Ah, a fond favourite of mine. Seek and Find?” Elizabeth asked.

“Indeed.” Edith smiled.

“I look forward to it…” Came Elizabeths answer. And Thomas adored that he could just tell, she was smiling.

He chuckled as he threw himself back into his work. _Life was good._

No actually, _better_ than that, it was _grand._

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas actually has two middle names. His first middle name is Earnest. Second Wolfgang. His father was a great fan of Oscar Wildes works, and enjoyed the comedy ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ so much, he gave his son it as a middle name, followed by that of his favourite composer. Caroline would not allow it as his first name - a fact he is most grateful for - It is stated on his birth certificate, his full name is Thomas Earnest Wolfgang Kenworthy. Iris is the only one who knows this. He never uses his middle name(s) – matter of fact, he hates them. (he doesn’t know Iris secretly told Edith of this)


	72. Walk's, Talk's and Good Friend's...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feat. Revvie Everett...

 

 

~ Chatsworth Woods ~

~ Edith ~

~ More Edith ~

~ Edith, Again...~

~ Elizabeth ~

~ Judith ~

~ Countryside ~

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Have a care Judith! Your mother would never forgive me if you fell down from there!”

Elizabeth called after her little niece as she toddled away, exclaiming she wished to do some tree climbing. Elizabeth was wary, given her past history with trees and rainstorms, but she let her excitedly run away to go and have her fun. Iris’s friend, Miss Lenora Swindle, had fallen ill with a terrible, dreadful cold, as she had so wrote in her letters, so Iris took the carriage to go and tend to her, bringing her a basket of goods to help aid her recovery. Elizabeth had been more than happy to take Iris’s place on the afternoon constitutional with the girls through Chatsworth woods. The ground was dry and the powder blue sky promised a rain free day, and as the sun shone down merrily through the leaves in the trees, she happily sighed a smile of utter content. Edith had expressed a wish for a walk also, They had all clamoured for Thomas to come, but, he had tenants to see too. And he was insistant. Judith had barked out that he owed her a walk, lest she make him do some swabbing on decks or plankwalking as penance.

They watched after judith, smiling as they saw her run away. Her buttery hair catching the sun in a sweep of gold as she ran away. Battering her _‘sword’_ (A stick she had found) against the birch trees as she ran.

“I’ve said it before, I shall say it again, that child has an unnatural partiality to swords and piracy…” Edith remarked in a laugh, watching her little sister run off through the woods.

Elizabeth chuckled, watching off after the little once, making sure she didn’t do herself a harm.

“I think it is a divine thing, for _one thing_ is assured, she will never have a dull imagination. That in itself in an incurable dull _tragedy_.” Elizabeth warned.

Edith smiled across at her Aunt.

“Logic will get you from A to Z. Imagination, gives you access to anything, and can get you anywhere.” Elizabeth smiled.

“My father always used to tell me that. Judith always makes me smile at that thought…” She told.

“The reality of the dreamer..” Edith added.

“Indeed it is..” Elizabeth smiled.

“My mother tells me that your family will be visiting you next week..” Edith began. “Are you excited to see them?” Edith asked.

“I am.” Elizabeth smiled gladly. “I’ve missed my family dearly, My Father, Stepmother and, dare I say, I even found myself missing my sister, Felicity on some odd, lonely moments…” She excliamed.

“Though I’m sure after three minutes of being back in her company I shall wish to _wring_ her neck like a flannel, just like old times again.” She sighed with a smile.

Edith laughed.

“Apart from her aversion to books, and the inclination to strangle her, do you often get along with your sister?” Edith enquired.

“Mostly. But this should tell you all that you should ever need to know about my younger sister, the fact that Thomas habitually calls her _‘pest’_ not her given name, Felicity.” Elizabeth awarded.

“A trying personality?” Edith asked

“Like _no other_ …” Elizabeth finished.

“Felicity is.. _a required_ taste, and I do so love her dearly. But, we really are ‘chalk and cheese’ to each other. Where she is open and flirtascious, I am more guarded and subtle. My sister is cursed with being the most _silly flirt_. The day Felicity does subtle will be the day _pigs start to fly_. Mark my words…”

Elizabeth offered, as she swept a thin spindly branch out of the way of their path as they headed their merry way through the woods. Judith was off, out of sight, having an imaginary sword fight, Elizabeth imagines, she hopes she was careful. She didn’t fancy seeing her hurt herself. And not on her watch either. She would take great satisfaction if she returned her dear nieces both with all their arms, legs, fingers and toes accounted for. And sans any bruises or scrapes.

“I suppose I haven’t really had Judith as a sister long enough to pass any judgements or to claim to have enough _information_ on such a matter.” Edith spoke with a wry smile, and a look of obvious damnation to her face.

“As long as she hasn’t made you walk the plank yet, I think you’ll be fine…” Elizabeth grinned.

“No. No planks. _Thank Goodness_ , but she has threatened me for my _‘mutiny’_ once or twice…”

Edith confessed. As the kind girl held out her hand, and helped her expectant Aunt step over a large tree that had fallen in their path. Elizabeth kindly thanked her, one hand holding Edith’s, and the other clutching her green shawl about her shoulders. Clearly Thomas had groomed his young niece for to watch after her aunt and cousin-to-be when he was not able too. That, and Edith was too genial _not_ to assist people, anyway.

They both then heard the sounds far off in the distance of Judith thwacking her sword against trees. Pronoucning every now and then, a very loud _‘AH-A!’_ or _‘HAAA’_ and _‘ATTACK!!’_

“Oh, I believe my mother was going to tell you, before Lenora’s illness captured her attention, but she received another letter from our mother this morning…” Edith spoke quietly.

Elizabeth met Edith’s eyes with a caring, and awaiting look.

“ _Oh_ , your poor mother…” Elizabeth winced.

“I do wish she wouldn’t take it to heart as she does. As it is, every time I see her pale at seeing post from her in the morning, I just want to rip it to shreds. I can’t stand how it’s making her so uneased…” Edith bristled.

Elizabeth listened carefully to her niece, who was being protective and angered over her the grief her grandmother was causing her mother. And from another continent too. That was a skill, in itself…

“Is it awful of me that I do not wish to see her?”

Edith asked her Aunt in a gentle and low voice. As if she was unsure whether or not she should be ashamed.

“From what I understand of your Grandmother, Edith. Not in the slightest..” Elizabeth reassured. Soothingly rubbing Edith’s back.

“It’s just…she. She never made any effort to enquire after me and Judith. And Mother is so good, and so is Thomas. They are too good. And from what Mother and my Uncle tell me or my grandfather, he was much the same. So I don’t understand how such warm, friendly people, can have such a cold mother. Something about bad apples and rotting the whole barrell comes to mind…” Edith ranted silently, fiddling with a stem of grass she had plucked in their passing.

Elizabeth nodded, taking in Edith’s emotions and words.

“You are perfectly at liberty to feel the way you do Edith. Trust me. It is perfectly natural to feel anger towards a relative. It is made even easier as you have never met them, and only have bad accounts of them. To tell you the truth, I am apalled at your grandmother’s blatant attempts to play on your mother’s geniality. As I take it, she writes to Iris as she knows she will listen. Whereas her so would not even entertain thoughts of her. It is a cruel twist of a knife in a wound.” Elizabeth told.

“I’ve never _hated_ anyone. But with every passing day, she comes awfully close…”

Edith growled. Tears of hot fury biting at the back of her eyes. She hated how her relative was imposing herself on their happy family. Elizabeth watched two tears streak down her pale cheeks.

“I understand.”

Elizabeth nodded, patting her back again. Edith crossed her arms, her books held close to her chest, and let herself relax back into her aunt’s hold. Sinking against her chest as they walked along. Elizabeth tucked her arm over Edith’s shoulders, giving her a one armed hug, comforting her. She used the corner of her green shawl to sweep away the tears of anger. Letting her head rest on the top of Edith’s. Edith twinged a grateful smile up at her aunt. She was more of a friend, or a big sister, than that of a relative. Edith felt she could tell her anything. And plus she was amazing too. She was definitely who Edith aspired to be when she grew older. She was elegant, fiery, courageous, brave, yet she was also refined, infinately clever, well-liked, and she was beautiful too, and smelled comfortingly like lavenders and the lovely scent of rosy french perfume. She would make a great mother to hers and Thomas’s children. Her little cousins. Edith did adore her mother, of course she did, but she adored Elizabeth just as so. Where her mother was perhaps a little refined, and quiet, she had seen Elizabeth could be silly and funny. She liked that. She wasn’t sure if she believed in angels, but her Aunt was one of them, if ever they did come into existance.

“Thankyou…” Edith smiled, mumbling quietly.

 _“Oh_ , My pleasure. I’m always ears and hugs for you, Edith. Should you need it.” Elizabeth smiled.

“And of course, for your recitations. I don’t need to tell you that you read very beautifully… Which is amazing, considering how your Uncles droning on and on can send me to _sleep_ …” She ribbed. Delighted to see that caused a little flutter of laughter to sweep away her souring mood. Edith laghed as she brushed away her salty tears.

“I never wanted to say. But he is a little spiritless…” Edith confessed. Smiling.

Elizabeth rubbed her upper arm.

“Completely... Elephant dart to the senses…” She agreed. Smiling.

They were suddenly ambushed by a wild looking Captain, making both of them jump as she hurtled into their paths, and of whom has several leaves and twigs caught in her long blonde curls. Her pea green dress had streaks of slimy moss across her, and her little hem and her leather boots were crusted thick with mud.

“Judith, where _on earth_ have you been?” Elizabeth laughed as Judith giggled sheepishly down at her appearance. _Oh well, a muddy child was better than an injured one,_ she supposed.

“I was running away from Indians… I was a Cowboy…” She told them obviously.

“Ah, yes. I hear those natives can be tenacious…” Elizabeth spoke, playing along.

“My horse threw a shoe….” Judith added in a mumble. “I had to continue on foot….”

“What rotten luck…”

Elizabeth agreed, holding out her hand for Judith to take. Suprisingly, the little one slid her hand into her Aunt’s without fuss. And her hands, were, amazingly, the only clean things about her.

“They were firing arrows and such at me…” Judith spoke up.

“And such… Judith, _what else_ could Indians fire at you?” Edith asked.

“You weren’t there…” Judith spoke gravely.

Edith waved off any further attatchment to this particular line of conversation.

“It sounds ghastly. You were lucky to escape with your life, Judith…”

Elizabeth told the little one as both Edith and Judith helped swing her over a rather large puddle, taing an arm each, and letting her soar through the air with a large, excited laugh.

“ _Aggggainnnnn…_.”

Judith giggled through undistinguishable laughter. They acquiesced to her request. Swinging her forwards again, all of them laughing at how potently it made her giggle.

Then, quite unexpectedly, into their path, all of a sudden, something small and red, round shaped, sailed through the air, rolling to a stop on the gravelled path in front of them.

“What _on earth?”_ Edith asked.

Elizabeth smiled. She knew who was the owner of that small red, rubber ball.

“I think we’re about to have some familiar company…” The Duchess predicted.

Before long, they heard the slow skitter of paws digging into the earth, and a floppy eared, rusty coloured dog ambled into their path from the nearby trees. All three ladies recognised one of Hugh Everett’s dogs when they saw one. They all crouched as Casper lapped up their attention, tail wagging, his big wet tongue licking at all the pairs of hands giving him attention. And before long, as they all crouched, a pair of battered brown boots came into their vision.

“Good afternoon, Ladies…” Came Hugh Everetts smooth greeting.

Elizabeth smiled, her head tilting up to take him in. He stood towering above them as they all fussed over Casper, and as Effie suddenly inserted herself in on the fusses and ear tickles from Edith and Judith. Today he wore a deep blue velvet coat, under which was a white shirt, a black cravat with a pearl pin, and a paisley red waistcoat. Golden breeches clung to his long legs, and he had forgone any headwear, today. After all, walking ones dogs was not seen as such a formal occasion as to warrant one. From up above him, through the spreading canopy of leaves on the trees branches, the sun burst through the greenery, making his tawny hair shine with a dusk of golden red to it, the sunlight making his eyes seem brighter, and more hypnotising. He really was mesmerizing in his handsome beauty. But he wasn’t vain. This much she knew about him. For so much of her life, she seemed to be addled by men in London, all of whom had half his looks, but still considered themselves dangerous rakes. But, she recognised the same virtues in him as another man she knew. One who was not aware of what potent beauty he possessed.

He dutifully leant down and held out his hand, so to assist Elizabeth in rising to her full height once again. He was too much of a gentleman to leave an expectant mother without aid where she needed it.

“Your Ladyship. It is a pleasure…”

He smiled, seeing her come to her full height, a head or two lower than him.

Elizabeth tilted her head, raising her brows with a wide smile.

Hugh blinked, smiling wryly with a laugh, dropping his head, before he corrected himself.

“Forgive me. _Elizabeth_ …” He beamed.

She smiled widely at him.

“It is marvellous to see you, Hugh..”

A little voice beside Elizabeth spoke up then.

“Hello Reverend.”

Came Judith’s little greeting. As she stood up straight and offered her little hand out for him to shake. Which he did, bowing to her beforehand

“How are we? Captain? You appear to have been ambushed by a… _tree_ …”

Hugh exclaimed, seeing the little one had leaves and twigs sticking out of her hair.

“I was running from the Indians. They did not like me because I am a cowboy.” She told.

“Well, shame on them. That's not very sporting of them. They should know better…” Hugh smiled.

“Edith, how are you going with those collected essays I recommended?” Hugh enquired.

For the past couple of weeks, Hugh had been tutoring Edith in Religious, Philosophical and Historical studies. It came after his offer to Iris that day Elizabeth and her delivered Hugh his new chickens. When Iris had told Edith of his kind proposal, she was only all too excited to receive it. Now, once a week, Edith would walk herself down to Chatsworth parish of an afternoon, to receive tutoring from the kind Reverend. Iris sometimes tagged along too, she sat and had tea as she listened to Edith and Hugh squabble over Historical interpretations, and the complex meaning of passages from the bible. After their first tutoring session, and a long winded, deeply thought provoking argument on the Ethics of the Scottish Christian Philospher, Robert Flint, and his compelling arguments for Christs Kingdom on Earth, Iris had wandered home with a very happy and gabbling Edith, and when they had gotten home to Chatsworth, and Elizabeth asked how it went, Iris exclaimed that she had never seen Edith look so happy in an argument.

“Indeed I am. I’ve come to find though, that compared to Florensky, Feinburg is completely dull as dishwater…” She smiled.

“Did you take note of my scribble in the margin?” Hugh asked with a low tone to his voice, and a friendly gleam in his eye.

“Yes. You were right, His thesis is completely _backward_ …” Edith smiles.

“Florensky is a funny name..” Judith spoke up.

She was met with a chorus of laughter from the man and ladies around her. Before Hugh handed her the rubber ball, and Judith excitedly ran off into the trees, both dogs in tow. Elizabeth reached over and patted Edith’s shoulder.

“Would you be a dear, and see to it that she doesn’t let herself get any muddier..” Elizabeth asked Edith. Who smiled. Moving off after her sister.

“Of course…” She smiled as she made quick direction after her mad little sister.

“Or Mrs Robson would never forgive me when she comes to launder it…” Elzabeth winced.

“If I stay, I’ll only have to listen to the poorly formed argument that Glanvill is better than Merricks anyway…”

Edith called teasingly over her shoulder as she walked away, Ribbing hugh over his lax debating skills in Christian Philosophers. Hugh tilted his head, raising a brow at the unexpected stab Edith took at his philosopnical beliefs.

“I think she has been learning from you in the wicked ways of how to speak with a sharp tongue…” Hugh chuckled.

Elizabeth grinned as he merrily crooked his arm into hers as they began a leisurely walk along, slowly together.

“I take that as a compliment…” Elizabeth grinned.

“I thought as much.” Hugh beamed.

“How is that baby doing?” He asked her as they smiled at Judith and the dogs playing loudly in the woods beyond them.

“So far, so good. I believe I have a while yet to go before it starts showing it’s nature. At the moment, it is very peaceful and obedient…” Elizabeth smiled.

“Like his or her, mother then…” He beamed across at her.

“And here, I thought I had a wickedly sharp tongue?” She asked.

“Ah yes. But even _such wild_ things can be tamed..” He joked.

She laughed at that. “Hugh, you are making me sound like a backbiting canine…” She warns.

He chuckled.

“I would never dare, insinuate that. The Duke would have my head…” He smiles.

“I’d have it first…” Elizabeth warns. Letting him know she would not need a husbands protection now she was an expecting, hormonal, mother.

“ _Oh,_ Before I forget to mention, I may have a favour to ask of you in 9 weeks time…” He begins.

“What would that be?” She enquired.

“Well. It is a somewhat unexpected favour, but, I believe that around about that time, that There shall come the little noisy task of looking after several small little dogs on my end…” He informed her.

Elizabeth’s mouth gaped.

“Effie?” She asked

Hugh nodded.

“Puppies.” He smiled

“Poor thing. I know how she feels. And I only have to birth _one_.” Elizabeth joked.

Hugh grinned his sunny laughter at her.

“Effie will birth her litter around that time. And though I do not yet, know how many she may give birth too, I know I probably won’t be able to sustain a lot of them, if there are a lot… So I may, have to ask upon you to accept a couple of them for me, to give them a good home?” He asked.

“We would be more than delighted. Though I believe Judith’s mere laughter alone from playing with Casper and Effie is confirmation enough…” She smiled.

“Of course.” Hugh accepted.

“Forgive me, If I may ask, Iris is well, and good? I know she adores a good walk.. She did not wish to accompany you today?” He asked gently.

Elizabeth beamed.

“She is perfectly well, Her friend however, is decidedly less so. She was taken ill this morning Iris had gone calling, to her aid with a basket…” Elizabeth explained.

“I didn’t mean to pry..” He burst out suddenly.

“Don’t be silly.” Elizabeth smiled, rubbing his arm.

“I shall be sure to pass along your well wishes to her…” She smiles. Patting his hand.

“Fine subtlety, Mrs Kenworthy..” He spoke lowly after a moment.

“It was, wasn’t it?” She congratulated herself. Grinning like a fool.

Hugh averted his eyes from hers, though she saw that he still smiled.

“Your secret is safe with me..” Elizabeth assured him gently after a long second.

Hugh swallowed, looking at her with a wry smirk.

“Though if I may say, it is not much a kept secret. The _tendre_ between you is palphable..” She confessed.

“To everyone?” Hugh asked with concern.

“To me and Edith, atleast. I do not think my husband, nor Judith have caught upon it yet.” She told.

“I greatly esteem her. She is… I admire Iris very much. I cannot imagine what others would think of such a thing. I shall remain in silence on the matter.” He told.

“You are scared people would not approve?” Elizabeth asks.

She recognised that the flash of an uncertain gleam in his eyes was, in fact, an affirmation of her words.

“I am the daughter of a Mathematic’s professor, Hugh. There is no title, nor grand loftiness to my maiden name. And yet, I am now a _Duchess_. Do not fear for yourself. You should know that barriers when ot comes to whom we _, admire_ , we do not let them rule us. And I know my husband well enough to know he thinks you are the best Reverend Chatsworth has _ever_ had, and that if Iris declares her happiness can be found with you, then Thomas would be utterly exultant on the subject.” She told him.

“You are talking as if I am ready to march up the aisle…” Hugh warned.

“I make no such guesses. For now. I know for fact she is grateful for your friendship.” Elizabeth spoke.

“I am too. And for now, that contents me perfectly well enough.” He insists.

Elizabeth smiled.

“Good. Because I cannot imagine she would say different, either..” The Duchess smiled.

“You are a wily breed of woman. You know that.”

“I’m often told.” She smiled.

“Besides, I think I am one empassioned philosophical debate away with Edith, of her not liking me anymore.” He smiled, ducking under a low branch.

“ _Oh_ , never sir. She Is greatly indebted to you. She’s finally found a mind which is her equal in her passions for history and religion. If I know my niece, at all, she’d _never_ give that up.” Elizabeth laughed.

“She has a very wonderful mind. I’ve never met anyone who adores the subject as much as I do.”

“Two peas in a pod..” Elizabeth added.

Hugh smiled down at his boots.

“Edith tells me we are to expect your family and friends up in a couple of days?” He asks.

“Indeed, we are. They should be arriving on Saturday afternoon.” Elizabeth smiles. “And I have persuaded my husband to throw a dinner party, and you are to be invited. And I shall apologise to you now. One for my stepmother, and the other for my younger sister…” She warns.

Hugh chuckled, loudly.

“As bad as that?” He asks through laughter.

“We Farrows are not known for being great paragons of true Christian virtue…” She confessed.

“You should know, if your intention was to scare me, your man of the cloth, into running for the hills, you have _sorely failed_. That statement only _intrigues_ me more. I now look forward to it…” He snickered.

“One conversation with my sister, and I bet you shall _be eating_ those words of yours…” She threatens.

Hugh’s eyes sparkled.

“How much you willing to bet?” He asks with a wide, cheeky grin. That was thoroughly handsome.

Elixabeth quirked an auburn brow at him, looking wily and very much amused.

“Five Shillings?” She asked.

Hugh folded his hand out to her, and she shook it firmly.

“Done..” He warned with a teasing smile.

Elizabeth grinned.

“Bare that In mind when you find yourself wishing to gouge out your own eyes with a soup spoon two seconds into the first course after she opens her mouth and begins to talk…” Elizabeth wanred with a pretty smile.

“Does your husband know he married a Wily totalitarian disguised cleverly as a woman?” He asked rhetorically.

“I believe he is somewhat clued in on the matter.” Elizabeth began “For he oft states that nothing can scare him, for he married a _redhead_..” She smiles. Looking amused, but downcast for a moment at the stereotype, which unfortunately, was true.

“In the end, women make boys of us all. Or so I have it. and you know what? We wouldn’t give it away for all the world.” He smiles.

“You are knowledgeable on marriage, understandably as a clergyman.” Elizabeth supposed.

“That, and I was married, myself. Once upon a – _very long_ – time ago.” He confessed quietly.

Elizabeth went quiet at that. She turned to look up at him. He was smilign genially down at her, though she saw the pain in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry for your loss..” She mumbled empathetically.

Hugh smiled at her, reaching over to reassuringly squeeze her hand.

“It was a _long_ time ago.” He answered.

“I know time heals all wounds, but. Loosing a husband or a wife, my god, even the thought of loosing Thomas tugs the _world_ away from my feet. Time does _heal_ , but, it cannot help you _to forget_.” She spoke respectfully.

“I was raised to believe in fate. And it was my fate to loose the woman I loved. Then being irational, or angry. Would not bring her back. I had to respect her memory. That, in some warped way, made it easier to cope.” He told.

“You lost your wife back when you were on your parish in Hampshire?” She asked

“I did.” He confirmed. “After the war.”

Elizabeth did not know what else to say.

“How evil. To survive such a horror, and then have to go through that when you return home...” She spoke, looking upset for him.

He soothed her. Smiling as he patted her hand in a reassuring manner.

“I think I am spoiling your once good and happy walk in the woods…” He teased.

“You have improved on my merriment, and I shall not allow you to think anything otherwise..” Elizabeth offered. Patting his hand and shutting him up.

“Do you know. I feel _very comfortable_ around you. Hugh. You make it very easy to be such a steadfast friend.” Elizabeth smiled.

“ _Touché,_ Your Ladyship. I have been enamoured with you as a friend since your first threatened me at swordpoint on the day first we met…” He grinned.

Elizabeth smiled as she rolled her eyes.

“A testement to what a true friend you are, Everett, a good friend would not bring it up out of politesse. As it is, _you rib_ me about it _on every_ foreseeabale occasion.”

“The actions of a true friend..” Hugh smiled.

Elizabeth chuckled.

“Lord help me..” She sniggered.

“I think you’ll actually find he’s on _my_ side…” He warned, giving her a silly smirk.

“A close aqquaintance of yours?” She teased through laughter at his words.

“Two peas in a pod…” He smiled back.

“Inseperable..” He added.

“Now, I shall give you one smirk, and we may go back to being rational once again. Your Ladyship.”* He simpered.

Elizabeth chuckled until she found her words again. Hugh liked causing her sunny, pleasant laughter.

“ _Oh,_ oh I think be are far beyond rational. Good friends are never one for such bland logic..” Elizabeth pointed out.

“Oh _, bother_. You must be right. I shall have to work on that.” He frowned.

“Please do, I shouldn’t wish for you to embarass yourself..” She smiles. Tapping his hand.

“Heaven knows, I have you for that. _Swordswoman_.” He chuckled. Leaning in to growl the word lowly at her.

Elizabeth and Hugh kept each other laughing and smiling until they caught back up with Judith and Edith, and the dogs again

 

~

 

 

 * Totally not mine. Anyone whose read Northanger Abbey knows who says this. I couldn't resist!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After John’s death and the War, In order to cheer Iris up, Thomas would leave little poems littered around Chatsworth Manor for her to find. They were always very poorly written. Iris always states he is lucky his calling wasn’t as a poet. And she has kept them all. Her favourite is one that goes ‘Sweet Iris, with hair so black and fine, I long to make you smile again, your laugh is so divine. I know that you are hurting, I am trying to make you better, I am a hopeless writer, this I well know, if I may quote this poorly penned letter…”


	73. Tea Parties, Waltz's, and Unexpected Visitors...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mixing things up a little....

 

 

~

 

As is turns out, After parting ways with the delightfully dashing Reverend Everett, and after they arrived home, as It turns out, they are in for an afternoon of fun. The ladies three had just no sooner stepped foot back inside Chatsworth from their walk, and Thomas was upon them.

Elizabeth and Edith nearly jumped out of their skin as he materialised in the hallway they stood at the end of. He seemed to sweep out of thin air. Grinning like a lunatic at his wife. His hands clasped behind his back. His smile too cunning to be deemed safe, and his eyes too vibrant not to be accused of having planned or plotting something.

Elizabeth’s little yelp of surprise is muffled as he slinks close, links a hand to the back of her waist, and sharply pulling his startled wife into a quick kiss. Smiling like a predator when he pulled away.

“Someone’s in a _jolly_ mood…”

Elizabeth replied with half alarm, and half intrigue as to what what making him as such.

He grinned wider. His smile cheeky. He looked _awfully_ pleased with himself.

“Have you had a _hit_ on the head whilst we’ve been gone?”

Edith asked, watching her Uncle smile like he had something to hide.

Elizabeth chuckled at her nieces wit.

It was then - after having her muddy gown thoroughly scrubbed by Mrs Robson, the Housekeeper down in the Kitchens, and all the leaves and twigs picked out of her hair - that Judith made herself known. Running full pelt to Thomas. Who scooped the little one up in his arms. Resting her on his hips as he kissed her little scruffy blonde head.

“If you’d care to come with me. Majesty. Princess. Scribe…”

He motioned towards Judith, then his wife, and last but not least, Edith. Who smiled to her aunt, before they moved off after the towering Duke, who strode away with the five year old viced in his arms.

“If he complains of dizziness, or any other mild form of weirdness that is non conforming to his usual character, I shall have you know, I am calling for the Doctor _immediately.._.”

Elizabeth mumbled to Edith.

“He is behaving _oddly_ isnt he?” Edith asked her Aunt.

Elizabeth raised a brow.

“You see any marbles rolling around on the floor. Pick them up. They will most likely be _his_ …”

She japes to Edith, who spluttered into a laughing smile.

“I have ears you two, _what cheeks._.”

He called over his shoulder, hearing Judith giggle as she clung onto him like a little monkey.

“Then stop acting like you’ve gotten a leave of your _senses…”_

Elizabeth called after her all too merry husband, who strode away round the hallway corner and out of sight.

“I know people change as they get older, I just didn’t think it’d happen all in the timeframe of _one hour_ …” Edith exclaimed as they hurried after him.

They walked briskly in silence, until they came to the doorway of the blue salon, which had been thrown open. Both niece and Aunt came to it, and peered inside to see the reason that the Duke of Chatsworth had been behaving so bizarrely...

It seems he had been planning a tea party for Judith.

For there, crowded onto a blanket on the soft fluffy, blue and gold swirled carpet, was a rug, on which sat a collection of Judith’s stuffed toys, a tiger, a giraffe with a comically floppy neck, aswell as the teddy clothed in mediaval garb, along with a dark haired dolly in a frilly dress, and a rather shabby looking penguin. And on the rug, lay several small little saucers and cups. Along with jam tarts, and other various cakes and an assortment of sandwiches. Elizabeth and Edith could also see that on the low coffee table by the blue velvet setee, sat a silver tray of real tea for the both of them. Along with a triple tiered stand of cakes and a plate piled high with sandwiches for them too. (And bonus, real tea) not the air which Thomas and Judith would be pretending to imbibe.

“I’m gasping for a cup of tea…”

Edith smiled and crossed to the sofa. Elizabeth stayed stood in the doorframe. Watching with a smile as Thomas helped Judith into a little golden crown, which sat wonky on her head. And helped her slide on a red cloak, trimmed with white and black spotted fur. To truly solidify her ‘Queen’ like image. Whereas Thomas himself, had tied a sash round his waist, and pulled a floppy felt pirate hat onto his head, aswell as a black eyepatch. Which looked _far too small_ , acutely tight, and incredibly uncomfortable on him. But, nonetheless, he’d persevere through the pain for the sake of this little gathering he was hosting…

She watched as they sat down, Judith perched her little self happily on a big red cushion on the floor. And Thomas folded his criminally long legs up, crossing them as he groaned, sitting down opposite her, being mother, and beginning to pour the _‘tea?’_ And then going on to offer _‘one lump or two?’_ to the Queen sat opposite him on her royal cushion.

Her hand absentmindedly went to her middle and rubbed over her baby bump. She smiled as her husband sipped on his tea, as she wandered over to drink some of the actual beverage with Judith. As she passed Thomas she rubbed his shoulder soothingly as he sipped daintily out of a little cup that looked weirdly out of place in his all _too large, too male_ hands. He smiled up at his wife, watching her walk across to join Edith on the sofa. She didn’t need to say what the reason behind her smile, to him was, _he already knew_. She loved beyond measure that he could speak god knows how many languages, deal with his tenants, run a house smoother than a ship in the navy, fight off rogue scoundrels, and still find time in the day to lark about, and have a royal tea party with his niece.

“Is this a _private_ tea party? Or can anyone join in on this royal affair?” Elizabeth asked from across the sofa.

“What do you think? Should we extend an invitation to the _Beautiful_ Princess, my queen?” Thomas asked. Leaning in to stage whisper to Judith.

“ _Yes_. Princesses may join.” Judith smiled.

Elizabeth rose to her feet, and wandered across. Edith laughed, watching her family muck about in such a manner. From beyond the pages of Christina Rosseti, of which was resting on her tucked up knees as she had toed off her shoes. And curled up to get comfy and have a good long read, with a cup of tea by her side. To quote Lewis Carroll _‘You may never find a cup of tea big enough, nor a book long enough to suit me’_ and that summed up Edith down to the ground…

“A Thousand Thank-you's, Your majesty, and may I say, I fear you may have a _rogue_ on your court…”

Elizabeth warned. Referring to Thomas’s pirate-y ensemble, as her husband held up his massive hand to assist her and helped her come sinking to her knees by their side. She settled herself on a rose stitched pillow beside her beloved. A few more months, and she’d find sitting on the floor and getting back up again, damn near _impossible._ She had been warned she’d barely be able to bend over, nor slip on her shoes when it came to the 4th month, 20 weeks in, she would feel the baby move and kick, and not be able to _do_ an awful lot.

Judith giggled into her cup of tea, and Elizabeth thanked Thomas as he handed her an empty teacup and saucer, she drunk from it, and remarked what an _excellent_ cup of tea it was.

She sat back, daintily cradling her cup and saucer to her chest. Before she suddenly realised, that she had not taken tea in this parlous before. She had never noticed that there was a painoforte in the corner of the room.

“ _Oh_ , I never knew you had a pianoforte.”

Elizabeth remarked to her husband. She knew there was a grand piano in the orangery, off the grand ballroom. But she’d no idea they had a smaller instrument to contend with.

“It was Iris’s. Though I believe now, it is only used for gathering dust.”

Thomas smiled, his tongue tipping out of his mouth to lick away the jam on his lips after he and Judith occupied themselves chowing down several jam tarts in a row.

“Was she proficient?” Elizabeth asks.

“Before the war, _very._ ” Thomas smiled.

Elizabeth nodded. Understanding instantly.

“I’m proficient. A little. And by that, I mean that no ones _ears bleed_ , when I play…” Edith confessed from the sofa.

“Anything we’d know?”

Elizabeth asked. Watching as Edith stood and crossed the room passed them to go to the piano.

“Mostly boring verses I’m afraid. I know the music for a waltz.”

Edith confessed as she crossed to the instrument.

“Though I’ve never waltzed. I never learnt _how_ …”

Edith remarked with a smile as she lifted the lid on the instrument, and brushing the dust off it, pressing a couple of keys, finding it was still in tune. Thomas smiled watching his niece, and Judiths demand caught everyones attention.

“I am _Queen._ Edith. You are my _Peasant._ You must _play me_ something..” She demanded regally. Elizabeth and Thomas laughed at her.

“I don’t care for that _title…”_

Edith confessed as she sat down, folding her skirts under her as she found the keys, and let her fingers find the familiar pattern on the keys. After a bit of stumbling and stuttering, she eventually found her rythmn. She began playing a soft, swaying 3/ 4 timed beat. Elizabeth listened to the delightful, before she saw her husband spring to her feet beside her, tugging off his costume, and throwing it away to the sofa behind her. She looked up at him, sliding her hand into his. A little bewildered as to what he looked _so determined_ to do...

“Let’s show these Thatchers girls how _us_ Kenworthy’s waltz… Shall we?”

He smiled. His eyes glittering, and his smile as merry as Elizabeth had ever seen it.

“Very well. If I suppose, we must.”

Elizabeth groans as she is hauled, unceremoniously onto her feet, stumbling into the arms of her husband.

“ _Ever the graceful_...” Elizabeth murmered to herself. Chiding her clumsiness.

“You’ll recover yourself on the elegance scale, I’m sure…”

He smiled, arching into a bow as he held her head, his inky hair flopping down as he bowed his head low to his dance partner.

“Any good and decent gentleman first bows to his lady… _and then..”_

Thomas began. Leaning down and kissing her fondly on the back of her hand.

“Thus with a kiss, the buisness of the waltz may begin…”

He smiles, sweeping Elizabeth into a dance hold. Judith giggled at the both of them, as Thomas led his smiling wife to the open patch of carpet over near the window.

“Goodness. _Such manners_ this handsome man has…Don't you think?...”

Elizabeth remarked to Judith who watched them fondly with a little giggle as Thomas led her away to the open expanse of floor.

They both settled into a familiar hold, one of which, it had seemed years since they had braced each other in. All those weeks ago in London. On some Society ladies dance floor, under the dark half light of glittering candles, and the eyes of hundreds of people watching down on their every move, to take a moment to dance with the woman he was courting. And also, madly in love with. It had seemed a million years since they had danced like this, and how many things had changed since then. When they last danced like this, it had been at a masquerade ball, when she had been Miss Farrow, and he had been the Suitor of her dreams. She had felt like an enamoured little girl then, but she was his woman now. His wife. And the life that nestles inside her only reminds her all the more of this fact.

Her hands braces to his shoulder, as her other was clasped in his hand. His touch to the back of her waist, and the other braced her hand back into his with equal fondness. They were close enough to feel one anothers breath on their faces, and their chests crushed close to touch. Elizabeth looks up into the sharp blue eyes of her husband. Her best friend. Her true love. Smiling as he beamed down at her like he was the _only woman_ he had _ever_ seen.

Thus, with a slow nod from her man, her male lead, their dancing began. Elizabeth found her footing, and slowly let her husband sweep her up into the arc of the dance. She held her skirts up in the hand that held his, so she did not trip on them. And their bodies moved in perfect sync with one another. Gliding across the blue and gold patterned carpet as if they were born to do this very dance with one another. Judith watched them, smiling gleefully as they performed the very pretty dance, perfectly in time too.

“You look _funny…”_ Judith giggled at the both of them.

“I wish I could dance _as good_ as that…”

Edith remarked, twisting about from the piano to see that her Uncle and Aunt were dancing as if they were professionals.

“On _my life_ , Thatcher, You will not dance like this _with any boy_ until you are a day over eighteen and no exceptions...”

Thomas barked in a smile from across the room. The Waltz was designed by some clever Viennese man who’d wanted to dance romantically with his lady love. It was _no dance_ for a debutante of ten and six to dally in. The thought of Edith pressed close to some faceless boy, who’d hold her the way he was holding his Elizabeth, and whom could very easily take _advantage_ of her in a situation such as this, well, to put it frankly, it made his _blood boil._

“It looks _so_ complex…” Edith feared aloud to the both of them.

“The key to Waltzing does not lie in the precise placement of your feet, turn out of your toes, or anything like that. Edith. The essence of Waltzing is keeping on time to the _beat_. Before you can try dancing with a partner, you master it on your own. When I was young, as a boy, I was taught how to do it by playing some moderate tempo music and just practice stepping on my own to the music… And in another language by my plump Germanic tutor, Herr Hasselmann. Sat there, scoffing tea and cakes down into his red face, barking out _'Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier,_ _Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier' over and over_ , at me...” Thomas remarked.

Edith and Elizabeth laughed.

“It is not so bad once you find your rhythm….” Elizabeth told. “The hard bit comes in findinf your right feet…” She explained.

“And the _right partner_ …”

Thomas purred into his wifes ear. His hand which held the back of her waist, tugged her close so their torsos were touching at every strategic point. And as they turned away from Edith and Judith’s sight. His hand slid down, very south, and cupped her bottom naughtily. Elizabeth gasped, snapping his hand back to where it _should have been_ on her waist.

“ _Scoundrel_.” She snaps into his ear.

He chuckled.

“ _Correction._ A scoundrel who can’t half waltz…” He smirks close to her neck.

Elizabeth shook her head. Though she was smiling.

“ _That_ I _won’t deny_..”

She smiles nicely as he continued twirling her round.

“Better _not.”_ He grins like a wicked rake.

“I’m glad I found the right partner for _all my_ dances…” Elizabeth smiled soppily.

“It is a handy piece of luck to have on our side. I cannot help but _heartily concur_ with you, dear wife.” He smiles kindly.

Edith came to sit down on the floor next to Judith. As both of them watched, in pure romantical wonder, how well their Aunt and Uncle twirled, and moved, arching gracefully through their dance. Both girls knew how truly lucky they would be, to find a love as true and passionate as the one their kind Uncle, and their beautiful Aunt had. They only realised that their mother had returned when she slipped silently into the room. Joining her girls on the rug on the floor. Sighing a smile as she heaved herself down onto a pillow by them both. Giving each of them a kiss, and happily watching her Brother and her Sister in law, dance away, they hadn't even _faltered_ in their steps, nor _noticed_ she had come into the room. They were waltzing.

“Did I interrupt a _dancing lesson?”_ Iris whispered to her girls.

“I think so.”

Edith smiled in a wily manner.

“They look _happy,_ don’t they, Mama?” Judith asked.

“Happier than _anyone_ I know of, _Poppet_.” Iris agreed.

“They look made for each other. _Like a prince and his princess.”_

Edith nudged Judith. Who beamed.

“And there is _no better_ analogy to describe them.” Iris added with a nod.

Edith grinned wide, and then leaned in to whisper to her sister, and her mother.

“When do you think we should tell them the music has stopped?” She asked with a cunning smile

Iris smiled as Judith giggled.

 

~

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

~

~ Later that Evening, Lingering somewhere near half past two in the morning ~

 

The house was silent as it would ever be.

A heavy, lifeless, night had fallen hours ago and even all the staff were abed. Sound asleep. No more chores had to be done by anyone burning the midnight oil. That could wait til the morning. A chilly midnight gripped the air around Chatsworth manor. Owls hooted, foxes shrieked in the near distance, and Elizabeth and Thomas fell into the blissfull clutches of a peaceful slumber, listening to the sound of the wind flitting gently, like the softest, most reverant whisper through the leaves on the trees.

And it was through this lulling hush, and the gentle fussing of the wind, that a sudden low rapping is the one thing that cuts through the dark, heavy stupours of the deeply slumbering night.

It served to wake the heavy sleeping likes of the Duchess. Elizabeth groaned.

As it was she was led on her side, with her face half mushed into her pillow, her body curled up, facing into her handsome husband, her coiled red hair thrown over her resting face. Her nightgown slid delicately off one of her ivory shoulders as she cuddled the pillow closer to her chest. Shuffling at the sound. It was probably a branch brushing the house, scraping against a window, or something.

Thomas frowned at her groan, her sound disjointing him out of his sleep, with his eyes still shut, he was on his back, with his wifes sleeping frame tucked under his arm as it was sprawled across the bed. He had pulled on a low gaping white nightshirt to sleep in, and he wore black sleep breeches on his legs. It was cold out tonight, and amazingly, he and Elizabeth had both been too weary to engage in amourous activities before they went to sleep. They merely flopped into bed, and had fallen asleep that way. Half rested across one another, semi-cuddling. Thomas shuffled in his sleep his left hand reaching over, curling across his wives hip, stroking over her tummy and their slumbering baby.

And then it came again, louder this time, but there was no mistaking. It was a heavy rattling rap. Possibly on a door, or onto a window, even.

It was Thomas who groaned this time. Loudly. His frown more prominent as he groaned.

“Did-you-hear-that?” He asked his wife. It came out as one long, sleepy mumble.

“Mmm-hmmmm.”

Elizabeth confirmed, her eyes, still shut opened for a second, before her hooded eyes confirmed that he had not moved. He had not even opened his eyes either. He stayed as he had been in sleep. Sprawled back across the back, his hand stroking across her bump. She shut her eyes again.

“It isn’t Judith playing the pots and pans again is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“If it is, remind me to put her up for adoption first thing in the morning…” Thomas moaned lowly. Eyes still shut. Wanting to get back to his sleep.

Elizabeth nudged his thigh, half heartedly, with her hand. This made him frown and growl again, as his leg rolled back to where it had been after her lazy jab.

“Be a love. Go and see what it is…”

She mumbled sleepily. She too, still with her eyes shut. Not having moved by so much as an inch.

Thomas groaned a low sound of grumpy disobedience.

“No. you go…”

“No, you…” She fought back

“You…”

“Wanted home for small, noisy, boisterous child. Answers to the names Judith, Captain or Majesty…Likes not letting her relatives get their much needed sleep…” He joked, half asleep still.

“Thomas…” Elizabeth whined, jiggling his leg.

He groaned again.

“… For a limited time only, also, 2 of the price of 1, have this flame haired, stubborn Duchess thrown in for free. Answers to the name of ‘ _Tenacious Mare’,_ or failing that, Elizabeth will do.” He joked all the more.

“Thomas. Kenworthy.” She growled lowly. Her voice was dangerous.

“Why _do I_ have to _get_ up?” He asks with a grumpy frown pulling down his resting face.

“Because… _You’re_ a _Duke_ …” She pointed out, quite rightly.

“Well spotted…” He mumbles.

“I’m remarkably observant like that…” Elizabeth adds.

Thomas’s eyes peek open, to instantly find his wife's sharp blue eyes daggering right at him from where she led. Cuddled into her pillow.

“You’re awake now. You can go instead of me..” He points out.

“And wander through the house, on my own, in the middle of the night?” She asks.

“You once nearly slaughtered me for doing that..” She is quick to point out.

“That’s because you went to confront a dangerous criminal.” He adds.

“Whats to say that noise isn’t a dangerous cirminal?” She asks.

“I liked you better when you were asleep.”

                                                                     She prodded into his ribs, _hard._

“Ow..” He mumbles after a second. A somewhat long and delayed reaction.

“Up. _Now._ ” She insists.

“…If I may take you back to your earlier little statement, I think it perfectly safe for you to go have a nosey round downstairs. You are pregnant after all, what beast, man or otherwise would dare go up against a pregnant _you_ …” He asks.

“Rude…” She acuses.

A rapping knock on their bedroom door makes them both groan in unison. It was safe to say, that Thomas and Elizabeth were people who were _not their best_ without a full night of sleep behind them. And nor would they make much sense in the impossibly small hours of the morning.

“Your Lordship..”

Came the soft call from the other side of the wood. Had they looked over, they would have seen the sliver of amber candlelight under the gap between the door and the floorboards. And they would have recognised the Butler’s hush of a quiet voice call for Thomas.

“He’s sleeping..” Thomas called.

“Get up…” His wife urged.

“Shan’t.” He groans.

“Thomas. It could be important.”

“Then it can wait til morning..”

“Your Lordship?” came the knock again.

“He’s busy…” Thomas responds.

Elizabeth scoffed.

“You have no shame..” She awards.

There came the butlers knock again

“Your turn…” Thomas hints to his wife.

Elizabeth sighs.

“It most certainly _is not_ my turn..” She grunts. “They asked for you. It is not my turn.”

“ _Oh, yes_ it is…” He responds.

“Whose Duchess?” She asks.

“Whose the Duke-”

“Whose pregnant. And also carrying your baby?” Elizabeth grunts back, cutting him off.

Thomas offered nothing but moody silence.

“When that baby comes out you will be sorry, and no longer be able to give that excuse ..”

He whines, rolling over on the bed, nearly flopping to the floor. Knowing that his wife was as stubborn as he was. Before he found his feet, and stood, on wobbly, half asleep limbs. Staggering around the bed, stubbing his toe on the chaise at the end of their bed. And cursing like a sailor, letting out a string of expletives that would have made the devil proud.

“Watch out for the chaise..”

Elizabeth spoke from the bed.

Thomas made some sort of growling noise at her, as he grumpily pulled on his silk dressing gown. It was thick, quilted, and gold. And there was every possibility he may have had it on inside out. But he was beyond caring about such a idle thing like that now.

He stomped over to the door and pulled it inwards. And before Wilkins could even speak, he found that Thomas already had.

“ _No._ Whatever it is. _No. No. No. No. No. and No._  Not now. Not in a million years. Not over my dead body and all such usual rubbish…” He grumps.

Wilkin’s face in the candlelight gave away that he really _didn’t know how_ to respond to that blatant dismissal. He blinked. And Thomas could almost _hear_ the man’s confusion. He could almost detect the noise of the cogs whirring and ticking over in the workings of his mind.

Thomas sighed.

He heard Elizabeth call out a _‘Be nice.’_ From inside the bedroom door, behind him.

 _Nice? Nice?! If they wanted nice,_ Thomas thought as he slumped against the door, using it to prop himself up, _If they wanted nice they should have chosen a better more sane, earthly time in the morning if they wanted Nice…._

Wilkin’s eyes twitched uncomfortably, his mouth pressed into an awkward line.

Thomas sighed. Again.

“Proceed…” He grumps.

“There is a woman at the door, Milord. She is urgently insistant on seeing you. Should I let her in, or send for the police?” He asks.

Thomas blinked. His eyes looked dead, and his hair curled down in front of his eyes. And he did and said nothing for a good long moment.

“Milord?” Wilkins asked. Urging him on.

“No. I heard you. I just… fell _back asleep_ for a second…with my eyes open. I’m skilled like that…”

He told his Butler, clearing his throat. Sniffing, as he tried to stand up straighter, as if it would _wake him up_ some more.

“Do we know _who_ this woman who has no polite concept of what a rude time of the morning this is?” He asked

Wilkin’s took a moment to translate that sentence.

“She _would not say_. Sir.”

“Do you think it would be at all possible to ask her to come back in the morning?” Thomas asked.

Wilkin’s frowned.

Now learning to, _never again_ , ask his master a question after midnight if he wanted to get something done.

They both heard a feminine sigh, and a grunt come from behind Thomas’s back, off in his bedroom.

Thomas twisted about to see his wife was stood, upright, and angrily tugging on a robe of her own. She tugged her hair out of the back of it. And shuffled her feet to stab harshly into her slippers. She came to stand behind her husband, looking awake, a little angry, and annoyed at having such a man child for a husband.

“If you want something _said_ , ask a _man_. If you want something _done_ , ask a _woman._ If you should wish to make _any progress, ever_ , at _any earthly given point_ in time. Make a note, Wilkin’s. Thomas, I hope you’ll write this down when your senses return. _Always. And I mean_ , _ALWAYS,_ ask the Duchess.”

Elizabeth snaps. Walking past her oaf of a husband and out into the hall, along the hallway with the butler to see whom was the source of all their rude awakenings.

Thomas floundered on the spot for a second, his wifes anger running through his head. Before he launched into motion and tore after his butler, and his angry Duchess.

He eventually caught up with them, and as they rounded past the family quarters. They too saw that, as a matter of fact, the rapping at the door had woken everyone up. Judith, Edith and Iris. The Thatcher Kenworthy ladies three, all in much the same state as Thomas and Elizabeth. Bleary eyed, bundled into nightgowns and slippers. Judith was barefoot, and clinging onto her mothers hip, sucking her thumb as her teddy trailed from her other hand. She was almost half asleep in Iris’s arms. Edith held out a candle on a holder for her mother and her sister. They all looked dishevelled, Iris in her Grey silk gown, and blue slippers, Judith in a too long white capped sleeve lace nightdress, and Edith with a blue shawl about her shoulders, her hair unbound, reaching down her back, just like Iris’s was. Elizabeth was the same, Blue silk gown, white silk gown underneath it, which as she angrily strode, the air pulled it tight about her body, Thomas noted, hungrily, he could see every curve, the bump of their baby, the swell of her rounded thighs, her full bosom filling out the front of it. The slap of her slippers echoing down the tiled stairs giving away how annoyed she was. But he made a note not to make an advance on her, she could punch him on the mouth in the mood she was in.

They all eventually came to the foyer. All wanting to know whom had woken them up. Thomas strode across to the door. Wilkin’s behind him.

“Why don’t you and the girls go back to sleep Iris? Me and Thomas can handle this..”

Elizabeth spoke groggily. Lovingly brushing hair back off Judith’s little face as she mumbled sleepily. Iris smiled sleepily at her.

“It was Judith who woke me. Anyway, I think she wanted a drink…” Iris insisted.

“We were already up when we heard the noise…” She told Elizabeth.

“I want to see who dares wake Thomas in the middle of the night…” Edith confessed.

“He is _wrathful_ if disturbed from his sleep..” Edith explained.

Elizabeth gave a wry smile, shutting her eyes, before they all looked over to see who was beyond the door as Thomas opened it.

When he did. His face flushed as pale as she had _ever seen_ him. All the colour drained from his face, and Elizabeth had never seen him go so _still or lifeless._

 _“Thomas?”_ She asks. Moving closer to the door.

“ _Goodness._ I must say, you grew up to be _so very handsome_ , my love. The spit of your father. Dear…” Came a voice from beyond him.

As she did, she saw a woman, as Wilkin’s had _rightly said_ , stood smiling genially at him from across the threshold. And when she turned to look at Iris, she too bore the same expression. Completely still, and perfectly devoid of colour. Yet, Elizabeth could see something so _eerily familiar_ in the woman stood adjacent to her husband. She had the same, coal black hair, and her eyes were so bright, they almost needed lampshades to dull them. She was dressed elegantly, in exotic fabrics, in a royal blue wool gown, trimmed with black, that made her look like she had been sculpted out of the midnight air itself. She had a black netted hat nestled on her hair, and a perfectly wicked smile on her red lips. Age rested heavily on her face, in the lines by her eyes, and the wisdom in her all knowing smile, and the lines of age on her forehead. She was a _stunning beauty_ of an elder woman.

“Are you not going to let your own _Mother in,_ Thomas _dear?”_

Came the dry, smoky and silky voice from the Dowager Countess of Chatsworth, stood before them.

It was Elizabeth’s turn to be as shocked as her husband, and his sister.

The sight of his absentee mother seemed to sober him up completely. He turned to Wilkin’s.

“I wish now that _you had_ called the police…”

He informed his butler in a low growl of a tone. Turning away from the door and stalking away.

His mother let out an amused chuckle.

“Oh, _Thomas. Really_. There’s _no need_ for that..”

She chuckles. Wandering in after her son, whipping off her leather gloves.

Thomas spun around wildly, his gown flapping at his sides as he stopped. Twisting to face her. His face contorted into a stony expression, which gave away the underlying, _vitriolic rage_ that would burst out of him if she got one inch south on the wrong side of his nerves.

“Why are _you here?”_

Thomas demanded from her as he came to stand closer to his wife. His eyes were blue razors and his mouth an unamused, ruler straight line. Elizabeth couldn’t decide where her eyes wanted to rest. Her furious husband, or his acerbic reputed Mother.

She tilted her head in a sigh.

“ _Because..._ I was in the country. I went to see Lady Lucas, Lady Hartwright, and Lady Cornell, in London, my dear friends, whom I hadn't seen in an age. And I saw there was a coach leaving for Sheffield. And I thought to myself, _well, why not…”_

She japed in as light hearted a manner as was possible. Thomas’s jaw clenched as were his fists. He looked _acidic._

“ _Oh,_ You were in the country? Were you? A little bit of warning might have been nice…If it wasn't too much _bother_ for you to fit it into _your busy day_ to write and inform your own children…” He snapped.

“I _did_ inform my own children.”

Caroline blinked. Then daggering a poignant look across to Iris. Who sighed in obvious pain. Elizabeth met her eyes with a supportive look.

“ _Didn’t I_ , Iris?” Caroline asks.

Iris gave her Mother Icy and fleeting eye contact, before she turned and softly lumped a sleepy Judith into Edith's arms, taking the candle from her.

“Go and take your sister, and put her _to bed,_ for me would you, _darling? Please?_ She _doesn't need_ to hear this, and _neither do you...”_

Iris asked quietly in a hush to Edith. Who took the little lifeless form of a sleeping Judith into her arms. But not before she turned towards her Grandmother, and gave her a thinly veiled glare of annoyance. Elizabeth was stood close enough to her eldest to comfortingly squeeze her arm, nod, and mouth a quick _'It'll be alright'_ before she disappeared away.

“ _Iris?”_

Thomas asks in a low, purely impatient voice.

She didn’t turn around at the _bark_ her brother blithely directed at her. She watched Edith walk away with Judith in her arms, as she ascended the staircase to go and put her sister to bed. She sighed, before she turned.

“ _Yes._ Thomas. She _did write_ to me…” Iris confirmed.

Thomas spluttered into poignant cruel laughter, wiping a hand down his face. Groaning as he pulled his hand away and looked at his sister with a sigh.

“Why on _earth_ did you not tell me that, _she,_ was _coming home?”_

He demanded. Pointing towards their mother.

Iris opened her mouth, but no words came to her rescue. Elizabeth squeezed Iris's hand, and stepped forwards

“Thomas, _don’t you dare_ for _one_ split second start getting angry at Iris. You are an intelligent man. You know _full well why_  both your sister, and I, didn’t tell you. It was for fear of your _explosive reaction_ …”

Elizabeth spoke up then, stonily, her voice warning and cold as she tried to defend Iris from his anger.

“ _You knew?”_

Thomas growled. Storming over to his wife. His rage contorted his face onto something moody and bitter which she never wanted to see again on the face of the man she loved.

“What were you _both doing?”_ He asked, looking at his Sister and Wife in turn like they had betrayed him.

“ _Ganging up_ on _me?”_ He asks

Elizabeth stood _resolute_. _And Proud_. She would _not_ slink away from this argument. And as Iris was too humble to fight him back. Elizabeth would fight her corner, _gladly._

_She was carrying his baby, and had hormones like he wouldn’t believe. Bring it on._

“Iris confided in me. I kept her secret. Because she, and I, knew you would act like a short tempered _swine_ at the news…Don’t you dare try and put the blame on your sister, Thomas. Not even for a second.  I _won’t allow it_. Stop being such a child, and lashing out at those who've done _absolutely nothing_ to deserve it."

His Duchess growls. Her eyes looking in the Dowager Countess’s direction after she finished speaking.

" _I am sorry_ I didn't tell you Thomas. But did it ever occur to you, that I only shrouded the fact of her writing to me because I knew it would _anger and cause you upset_. And as I told Elizabeth, I felt you deserved to be _free_ from such turmoil and… well. to.... _enjoy your honeymoon_ with the wife you love _so very much_ …”

Iris added, her grey eyes meeting her brothers as her words, and Elizabeth’s previous warning hit him right in the heart.

They were right. He was being a _swine. Putting himself into Iris’s shoes, he could see she had done it for just reasons…_

Thomas backed down. Knowing they were both right. And looking over to his wife, he saw that she looked _lethal._

"I am _sorry, Irie_. you're right. _Please, Forgive me?_ I was being a _prat."_

He spoke softly. Iris nodded and smiled gently, accepting it

Caroline seemed to truly look at Elizabeth then. She tilted her head, and surveyed the Duchess of Chatsworth. Her smile grew as she examined the woman from head to toe. With a more than curious and interested smile on her face.

_Her son had certainly chosen well based purely on her looks and beauty alone, she was a stunning woman to behold..._

“So. You must be Thomas’s catch then? The New Bride?”

Caroline asked, stepping closer to her new daughter in law, her eyes drifting all over Elizabeths face. Surveying her. 

"This is my _wife_." Thomas growls. 

"Elizabeth Kenworthy. The Duchess of Chatsworth. Meet the Dowager Countess. Caroline Kenworthy. The absentee woman, who _so laughingly_ danes to call herself our Mother..."

Thomas growls in an introduction. Arms crossed. Expression tight and humour less. 

Caroline looked less than impressed. But continued to look at Elizabeth after her gaze flickered briefly over to her son for a moment. 

" _Charmed_. I'm sure..." The Dowager mumbles lowly. 

" _Oh_. The pleasures all mine.... Surely.." Elizabeth answers back just as stiffly. Humour dry and unemotive. 

“Word has it you two made the marriage match of the season. All of London is still bursting with news of you, the romance, marriage, the scandal… Fancy that, you marrying so far outside your social class, and snubbing a suitor for _my boy._  Though, _I must say…”_

Her eyes flickered down to Elizabeths barely swollen belly. She raised a brow at that

“You may want to see to altering her _diet,_ Thomas. Your new Duchess looks a little too _plump_ around the middle…" Caroline told.

Iris looked aghast, mouth gaped at her mother's rudeness. Thomas stood, trying to remind himself that murder, let alone murder of one's own mother, was _sadly illegal._

"You know what they say, my dear,  _'A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips'_ … But don't you worry. A Good stiff corset can hide such... _ample ... flabbiness...”_

Caroline sneered snidely. Patonisingly patting Elizabeth on her hand.

"And, It is a shame about _that red hair_. Such a... _regrettable attribute._ But I suppose there is _no helping that now._ Let us all hope the child is lucky enough to get the colouring from our side of the family, _hmmm?"_ Caroline smiled sweetly.

 Elizabeth blinked and jerked back as if the woman had _slapped_ her.

_Such poisonous rudeness… Now she knew why she had not been missed._

Thomas saw red at that. He opened his mouth to shout to defend her. But Elizabeth got there first…

Elizabeth folded her gown in front of herself, covering herself up, crossing her arms. Steeling herself tall, she came level with the Dowager and her eyes were positively _foul_ in their glare.

“For your information, Mrs Kenworthy. Perhaps the one thing you’d be informed of, if you had _bothered_ to keep in touch with your own children. Is that the only reason I am ‘ _plump’_ as you so _vulgarly_ put it, is because I am currently carrying your _third grandchild,_ the future heir of Chatsworth. Or was that the _one shred_ of gossip something your gaggle of airheaded ton society women in London didn’t manage to yap to you of?” Elizabeth growled.

Caroline took a small step backwards. This time, it was her who looked like she had been _slapped._ But she smiled. Breaking into perfect sounding laughter after she recoiled from the brusque clip of statement from her new daughter in law.

“Thomas. I think you had best send your Bride _to bed_ before she overexerts herself into a snit and causes harm to _my grandchild…”_

Caroline demanded, turning to her son. Who did nothing but glare at his Mother.

“I _never have, and never will_ , _send my wife anywhere_. And If I ever do, I will do it when _I am_ good and ready. And not a second before. You do not rule me anymore. Mother. I am not a _child_. I am  _The Duke of Chatsworth_. And you _will_ tell me _why_ you are here, or I will have you thrown out on your ear to the curb into the dirt. Which is _no less_ than you deserve. You have been in this house not three minutes already and in that time you have managed to Anger me, Upset Iris, and Edith, and both offend and insult my Wife. If you wish to _remain_ here, then talk now, or _forever_ hold your peace…”

He growls. With a voice like thunder.

Caroline fidgeted sheepishly.

“I figured now was as _good a time_ as _any_ to come home…” She offered.

Thomas chuckled.

"Like hell I'm going to fall for that _innocent crap..."_ He snapped.

“You wrote to me from, _Greece_ , Mother. Something obviously helped change your mind…” Iris humbly pointed out.

“Ran out of funds again? did you? Why couldn’t you just have sent the usual letter? _‘Urgently need the son I haven’t seen for 12 years to mail me more money, I have another selfish venture to engage myself on… another expensive hat to buy, more money to gamble and drink away’…_ you know what I mean don’t you? The letter in which you grovel for money, ask _two half assed_ things about the house, and Iris, not bother asking about your grandchildren, or your own, for that matter and promise to send a card at Christmas” Thomas mocked.

“Why weren’t we treated to that usual missive? Go, on. Mother, _Delight_ us…” He roared.

“ _God._ You are just like your father.” Caroline snapped lowly.

“That makes _one_ of us, atleast.” Thomas barked back.

“I couldn’t turn out like my mother, she was _never in_ the country.”

“I was here for eighteen years whilst you grew up. Thomas. _Don’t_ _you dare_ give me that.” She warns.

“You skipped out on _any right_ you had to order me about years ago. Father wasn’t even cold in his grave and you had packed yourself off on the first ferry from Dover.” He reminded her.

“I’ve told you millions of times, Thomas there was _nothing_ here for me.” She tried to point out.

Thomas was having _none_ of this. He shook his head. Smiling wickedly at her.

“And I will tell you a _million times moreover_ , there was a _whole life_ here, for you, Mother. And the respect and love of your children along with it.” He bit back. “You threw it all away quicker than a buttered bullet.” He retold her.

“Will _you ever_ be civil to me?” She cries loudly.

Thomas shook his head, unemotively, Arms folded. Stance not wavering even in the slightest.

“Not whilst I _stand_ and _breathe_. No.” He told.

“Look, Thomas. This _arguing_ isn’t getting us anywhere…”

Elizabeth interjected, laying a hand softly on her husband’s arm.

“It is an abominally late hour. We are all, tired and, _irritable._ We should retire to bed and continue shouting and screaming at each other in the morning, in the sane hours of daylight..” Elizabeth pointed out.

“Good idea…” Iris added.

Thomas looked across to his sister and his wife. Knowing they were right. He sighed. _This was a battle he would loose._

“Second floor, west wing, Guest room.” He mumbled in a low growl to Caroline.

“I trust you can manage to remember where that is, Mother?” Thomas asks in a reedy voice.

Caroline swallowed back the retort that tried to climb out of her mouth at that.

“I need you fetch some staff to gather my bags…” She insisted to her son.

“ _My staff_ are _asleep_ …” Thomas points out resolutely.

“So? _Wake them_ …”

Caroline ordered, _snapping_ her fingers at him like he was her personal slave.

“ _My staff. Are. Asleep_.”

He growled in an answer. The subtext of his repeated comment was _: ‘And that is the final word on the matter.’_

Wilkin’s had long since retired from the argument. And Thomas was _not_ fetching him back. Not for the likes of his Mother.

Caroline looked toxic.

“Carry the _bloody_ luggage _yourself_. Me and Elizabeth are going back to our bed, I need sleep. Presumably to _refresh_ myself for the second round of messy conflict that will doubtless happen over breakfast tomorrow. But _until then._ Make yourself at home, _if you can_ …”

He snaps, marching away. Elizabeth following, with Iris by her side. Leaving Caroline to watch them all walk away. Up into the night, off into the dark house.

 

~

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas always tends to Judith when she injures herself. Always. Night or day. He would be there to nurse her. She once skimmed her knees falling down the stairs, and before Iris could even act, Thomas had scooped her up in his arms and away to the kitchens to tend to her wounds personally. He hums her a lullaby he and Iris used to know as Children to soothe her when she hurts herself. Whenever Judith harms herself accidentally, she always asks for Thomas to sing her the lullaby, and tend to her cuts and scrapes.


	74. Parent's, Venting and Bloodshed at Breakfast Time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * Act 3, Scene 1. Line 273. William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. "Cry Havoc. And let slip the dogs of war..."
> 
> ** Act 1, Scene 2. Line 10. William Shakespeare's The Tempest. "Hell is empty. And all the devils are here..."

 

 

 

 

Thomas was, _understandably_ , far _too angry_ to go back to sleep.

 

Elizabeth slid back into their bedroom behind him after he tore into it. Shutting the door, pressing her back to it, watching her husband pace and storm about like a caged panther. He tore off his dressing gown, and hurled it into a golden ball into the armchair by his side of the bed. Elizabeth stayed rooted to her spot by the door. Watching her husband seethe and snarl in distress.

He managed to stand still long enough to wipe his hand down his face, after giving the chaise a good kicking. Cursing as he did. It obviously had pained his wound to his thigh. And then she watched still as he came to brace himself, back facing away from her, one arm stretched out locked on the stone fireplace. He was panting and she coud just tell, volcanic rage was firing hot through his blood.

“My. _Bloody. Mother_ …” He growls finally.

Elizabeth moves closer into their room. She rounds the bed, and comes behind him. Pressing a hand gently to his bowed back. Feeling the heat of him scorch her palm through the thin cotton of his shirt. He sighs as he feels her hand touch his back. Her touch always seemed to calm him from whatever storm of anger clouded his sights.

“… And here I thought _my sister_ was a _required_ taste of the highest order…” She spoke gently.

He chuckled at that. Still not turning about. Proverbially bashing his head against the wall.

“Not as high as _my_ Mother. Felicity is Saint Mother _Sodding_ Teresa compared to her…” He awarded.

He felt her small little hand slide up, hooking over his shoulder, slipping onto his bare skin as the neck of his shirt gaped open so wide. She tugged, turning his towering body around so he was now stood facing her. His eyes were softer from the razor sharp orbs they had been when glaring at his mother, and his expression was gentle now he was looking down at her. Back was her handsome husband. Not the rageful Duke whom had made a brief appearance downstairs.

She reached up and cupped his fine face in her hands. Her eyes caught his, and shuttered a little as she leaned up on tiptoes and pressed a slow, and loving kiss to his lips. Pouring as much love onto him as she could manage. He melted into her. She could feel him relax, his body molding better into her own, he softened, his hand reached to cup her lower back, grasping her body close through the layers of her silken gown, his other dwarfed the back of her neck as he held her close. She teased and artfully left him wanting more when he pulled away.

“ _Who_ taught you to kiss like that?”

He asked with those wicked, charming eyes. His look was lustful as he smiled rakishly down at her, his hand stroking along the back of her neck, brushing her coiled hair out of his way. Admiring the way the silky long tresses coiled through his fingers. Shining a brilliant copper red in the meagre candlelight of the room.

“The _best man_ I know…”

She responded. Stroking a hand through his dark hair. As his combed through hers.

“You know, I don’t think that your _lovely hair_ is a regrettable attribute at all…”

He hushed gently, pressing a kiss to the stop of her head. Inhaling deep the scent of his Elizabeth, that was woven into her fiery hair.

“In fact, I think it’s one of the most _alluring_ things about you…”

He smiles, nuzzling into her, following the shape of a fiery curl with his lips.

“In fact, _please, I beg of you_ , purely to _spite_ my foul mannered mother, _please_ make sure to it that _all of our_ children have _red hair_ , just to _shut_ her up…”

He snaps hotly as he leans down to kiss her neck. One of his favourite pastimes. Elizabeth chuckled as she clutched onto him.

“I’ll have a stern word with the baby bump in the morning, _your lordship..”_

She smiles, hugging her arms around his waist. Pressing a kiss to his bare neck. Feeling his hot skin and pulse hum under her lips. Thomas held her closer. Feeling the _lovely_ curves of his more than amptly proportioned wife pressing into him.

“Just as I thought things were happily going along, all well and good. She has to turn up out of the blue and ruin everything. Which she _doubtless will._ It’s part of her style. Part of the bargain that comes with being Caroline Kenworthy the _Menacing, meddling_  Dowager Countess of Chatsworth.” He grunts.

“Well. As Judith would put it, it seems our little fairytale is nice and complete. Now we have a wicked Mother in the picture.” Elizabeth supposed.

Thomas blinked down at her, raising a brow.

“ _Really?_ Just the wicked mother? I would have said she was the fire breathing, evil. old, _Dragon_.”

Elizabeth chuckled

“She’s _too beautiful_ to be an old Dragon. Now I know where you, Edith and Iris get your dark, bright eyed, raven haired beauty from…” She smiles.

“ _Oh,_ she may be all simpering smiles and beauty on the outside, but deep down inside she is a nothing but a dark, thorny hearted, souless old _harpy_.” Thomas growls.

“ _Thomas_ …” Elizabeth chided lightly.

“You’re really defending her after _the way_ she spoke to you?” He asked.

“I could have _wrung her neck_ with my own hands the way she talked down to you about class. Making snide sideswipes at your weight. And your _‘unfortunate’_ hair colour. _God,_ I’ve never wished to have been armed with a pistol so much in _all my life_.” He snaps.

Elizabeth patted his chest, bringing him back down to earth. As his mind sailed off merrily to murderous places.

“I’m _not defending_ her. But you will never get some sleep if you continue to mope around, growling and spitting like a cobra…” She told him.

He frowned mildly down at her.

“I’m _venting_..” He explained.

“Then get into bed, and vent. I don’t know about you, but I intend to get some sleep tonight..”

She confessed, shrugging off her robe, and crossing back over the room, grabbing the candle and the holder, and taking it to her beside, so she could snuff it out when they were ready to go to sleep.

Thomas watched her eagerly. His eyes sliding down, settling low on her figure, on those full thighs, and that amply formed bottom that he adored. The back of her silk nightdress dipped down very low indeed, curving right under her pale shoulderblades. Showing him the gorgeous expanse of her pale back. She padded, barefoot, away from him as she had discarded her slippers when she came in the room. And _christ_ , even the sight of her shapely calves peeking out from the modest slit in the dress, made him ache and hunger a little for her. He became mesmerised with the way her hair fell like red waves down her back. A cascade of copper, fiery red.

 _No._ He thought to himself _. There wasn’t one bit of her that he deemed, as his foul Mother had put it to be ‘a regrettable attribute.'_ He loved all of her. From the roots of her wonderful hair, to the tips of every one of her magnificent toes.

He watched her climb up into the large bed, folding the covers over her legs, and laying like she had been earlier, adjusting the pillows under her head. And laying with her hand stroking over her belly, which rested on a cushion that she hugged close to her chest when she slept.

He smiled, contended in just watching her.

“So, tell me, now that I have met your…. _charming,_ mother. If I may pry, what was your Father like?” She asks curiously.

He smiled, reached over his sides, and heaved off his cotton shirt still wearing his shabby black breeches, he chucked it to the floor and climbed into bed with her. Speaking as he moved to join her, folding the covers down so that he could slide into bed bext to her, his feet sliding into the bed sheets, still warmed from where they had been merrily sleeping, until his mother turned up, unannounced on their doorstep in the middle of the goddamned night.

“He was. Completely, unlike her, in _every way..._ ”

Thomas told his wife as he settled next to her in bed. Tucking her to curl up into his chest. Her combed her silky hair back off her head as he spoke some more, explaining to her what he remembered about his brilliant father. Cuddling her close, so he turned on his side, head resting on his elbow as he spoke. His hand abandoned her hair, and chose to settle, stroking over the baby bump instead.

“I remember when I was young, I thought he was _tallest_ man in the world. To me, as a boy, of _course he was_. Hence, where I get the tall towering gene from. But I _always_ thought there wasn’t _anything_ he couldn’t do. He could fish, shoot, hunt, ride, he could build things with his own hands, he could speak _more_ languages than I thought possible to exist. He could dance, entertain and effortlessly charm everyone. He was bewitching as a Father. There was nothing he didn’t do for his family. And he was the best and kindest Duke _anyone_ could have the pleasure of knowing…”

Elizabeth loved listening to the deep, rich lull of his smooth voice as he spoke. She let her hands twirl soft patterns over the skin of his chest, listening to his heartbeat, hot and vivid, calmly beating through his ribcage as she was curled up so close to him.

“He liked reading, he loved hearing Iris play the piano, or the cello. He encourged her to do what she loved. And when she met John, he approved instantly. I remember he said, _‘If my daughter was happy, then that was all I need to know.’”_ He quoted _._

“He encouraged you too, Into doing what you loved?” Elizabeth asked.

“He did…”

Thomas smiled, meeting her eyes. His smile, flashed white and brilliant as he remembered the faded memories of his Father. She liked seeing him so happy.

“As a boy, I loved physics, maths, sciene. Mechanics. I loved finding out how everything worked. He was always helping me tinker away to build things. Odd little mechanical toys for Iris. And If they broke, or blew up – _which did happen sometimes_ – he would just smile and comfort my upset, saying that I hadn’t failed, I had just found a way out of _how not_ to build a toy..” He chuckled.

“He was remarkable. I knew I wanted to be as good as he was when the fortune, House, and Title were mine. I always wanted him to be proud of me…” He spoke fondly.

“He would be over the _moon_ with pride for you, my darling.” She told him.

Elizabeth squeezed his hand.

“Though, He didn’t look quite _so tall_ when he began to get ill…” He explained. His voice faded away into sadness.

 _“Oh, Thomas_ …”

Elizabeth soothed, holding him close. He wrapped an arm about her. She could see the bite of tears welling up in his eyes.

“Diphtheria. It was …. _bad_. One day he was fine, then, a cold, a sore throat, and after three weeks, it got worse, and by the fifth week, he had grown so sick and frail. He was bedridden. So _pale…_ He just… wasted and….slipped away.” He explained sadly.

“His last words to me were...” He swallowed back his grief.

_“You’ll make a fine Duke, my boy. You’ll do Chatsworth proud. You mark my words, and mark them well.”_

Because Thomas _would never_ forget, plain as day, how his once tall and handsome, strapping father had said that to him, ashen and panting through wheezing breath, clutching his hand so hard _it stung._ And Thomas, the small, lanky, dashingly dark, weeping eighteen year old boy had just sat at his bedside, holding his hand back equally as tight, crying rivers as he had to face up to the horrible bitter realisation that his Father was breathing his last few breaths. He had never felt more alone, or small and _terrified_ without him there as a guiding post. He felt like a boat, drifting lost and aimless, without it’s anchor.

He swallowed, looking down to his pretty wife. Who reached up and swept the tear away from the corner of his eye.

He kept her hand pressed against his mouth. Kissing it gently as he closed his eyes.

“How were your Mother and Father when you were children?” Elizabeth asked.

“From the sounds of him, it sounds like he and your mother are _polar opposites…_ ” She asked gently.

“They… _appreciated_ each other. But ultimately, they were always civil to one another. Fond of the other’s existance. In a house this big, I suppose you can easily ignore your spouse should you have separate interests. My father had me and Iris to entertain, which seemed to amuse him _so wholly._

Our mother was more one for her small, yappy little dogs, her new dresses and the petty gossip from her society ladies. I saw more of my Father than I did my Mother. He was, _by far_ the better parent. Attentive and caring. There when we needed him. Kind, fun. Amazing. Our Mother was _always preoccupied_. I remember I never understood why they were married. I was 12 before I learned that theirs had been an arranged marriage of mutual admiration. Not love. It had never been based on love. Just for want of heirs. She was the eldest daughter of an Earl. And he… _needed a wife._ And he chose _her._ ” He told.

“Though when he fell ill, no sooner was he on his death bed, and she was packing up her things ready to leave…” He informed her.

“That’s _terrible…”_ Elizabeth hushed gently.

Thomas leaned over and kissed her pretty pale forehead.

“It was a long time ago…” He awarded her.

“You must miss him?” She asked.

“Sometimes, yes. I miss him _dreadfully.._.” Thomas smiled.

“… And _oh_ , how he would have _adored_ you.” He smirked softly down at her. Leaning in to kiss her forehead.

She smiled.

“He woudn’t have thought me below your class?” She asked. Because that was the first thing his Mother had said to her. And it was plaguing her mind. Stweing in her head like a pot of steeping tea.

“Not for one second and don’t you dare let my Mother’s snarled words affect you. Do you know when John declared he wished to court Iris, my Father was ecstatic?... Because he said John was hardworking, and would do her so very proud. He wasn’t born into nobility, so my father thought his profession was honest, and that he’d treat her far better than _any landed snob_ who’d be more contented with their fortune than with her as a wife. John was the son of a Innkeeper. He was as humble as the dirt in the earth. My _mother firmly opposed_ the match, but he shut her up, by saying that if she wanted to get in the way of Iris’s happiness, then she should have paid more attention to her children, rather than her _dogs and dresses._ He put her in her place. There wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it. He said so long as we were happy, he’d let us marry a _donkey_ if it suited us. So _don’t for one minute_ think that he’d have not approved of you. As it is, he would have wished us _such_ forceful joy, and I have a feeling he’d be as delighted and beguiled from one mere look at you.” He promised.

“ _Just like I was…”_ He smiled, cupping a hand to stroke down her face.

“A _donkey,_ Thomas _? Really?”_ She laughed.

“ _That_ is all you took from that?”

He asks with increduality. Shaking his head. He noticed that when she chuckled, her eyes were hooded, and beginning to slide shut.

He pressed one last kiss to her lips before she fell deep asleep. The baby was small still, but enough to tire her in its small stages...

“I need my beauty sleep If I am having to barter and defend myself against your mother in the morning...” She mumbled.

“You won’t have to defend yourself alone. I promise you that. As Judith would say. T’is my duty as a Handsome Prince, not to let my Beautiful Princess be ravaged by the foul Fire breathing dragon..” He informed her.

“Was that your way of saying you’ll protect me?” Elizabeth asked, a smile on her face, eyes closed.

“ _Indefinately_..” He promised. Kissing her head again.

“I hardly think I need it…” Elizabeth said back.

“Don’t dissolve me of my protective, Dukely, husbandly honour of safeguarding you.” He whines.

“Thomas. I am full of pregnancy hormones, and am about as temperemental as an animal in _heat_. Your Mother insults me _again_ tomorrow, just point me in her direction, and then retreat to a _safe distance_ …” She seethed.

Thomas grinned wryly at that.

“I shouldn’t find the image of you getting all fired up, _as seductive_ as my head is making it…”

He growls hotly. His fingers dancing a wicked pattern up her arm, sliding up her neck as his eyes grew hot. Watching her sleep.

“ _Sleep,_ Thomas.” She bites out.

“Yes, Milady…”

He obeys instantly, snuffing the candle with a puff of breath as he settled down, cuddling her close.

“Besides. You’ll need all _your senses_ tomorrow. To do battle with your Mother..” She points out.

“By the sounds of things, I have quite the little red haired _combatant_ on my side…”

He smiles, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, as he led down, falling back on his pillows to try and sleep.

“Thomas?” She asks.

“Yes? My _fiesty_ little minx?” He growls.

“I will aim my anger in your direction unless you be quiet and go to sleep..” She growls.

“ _Ah_ , my sweet _rapacious_ wife…” He sighs.

“Thomas…” She growls again.

“I know, _I know. Sleep_.” He sighs.

Amazingly, Elizabeth noted that he was _very_ quiet from that point onwards. Though as he pointed out, that he was a _Duke,_ he was awfully obedient before his flame haired wife.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

~ The Lady Causing all the Trouble, Caroline Kenworthy, Dowager Countess of Chatsworth ~ 

 

~ Thomas & Elizabeth ~

~ The Battlefield ~

~ Edith ~

~ Iris ~

~ Judith ~

 

 

 

~

The next morning, though she felt a little queasy and the thought of getting out of her warmed bed next to her half naked husband, did make her reconsider getting up at all. She finds it had only just gone half past eight, and she was up, bathed, dressed and readied. It was sometime during all of this she realised it felt like when she slid on her clothes, and swept on her makeup, dressed her hair, it felt rather like she was strapping on her battle armour, and donning her warpaint. All of which was in order to face her terror of a mother-in-law across the breakfast table.

Today she had chosen a modest gown. It was, again one of René’s artworks. It was a modest ivory lace gown, with a scalloped trimmed neckline and ruffle detail around the upper arms. Elizabeth especially loved that it had lone trailing lace sleeves, and it was trimmed to fit snugly about her waist, so it still showed off her figure.

Luckily, Thomas awoke not long after her, and was dressed and bathed in no time, to then escort her down to the dining room. She felt much better to have him by her side. She felt better _defended_ with him there. And comforted.

Just as she was sat at the vanity table, sweeping her hair up into it’s usual artful arrangement of curls, he swoops down behind her, sky blue cravat which almost matched his eyes, tied in place about his neck, his ice blue waistcoat on, black breeches on his legs and his black boots shining. He swooped down to his wife, and pressed a lingering kiss to where her neck met the juncture of her pale shoulder. Smelling her french perfume that clipped his knees, the one that made him bite his lip in how _sultry_ and inviting it was. He looked up, meeting her eyes in the looking glass.

“You look _lovely_. As always…”

He smiles. Because she did. With those long lashes, beautiful soft skin, rouged and made up as perfectly as she always was.

Elizabeth smiled at him.

“If your utlerior purpose as my spouse is to pounce out of nowhere and declare and remind me how _beautiful_ I look at every turn…. _Well, then ok_.”

She smiles, as she turns about, grabbing his chin and leaning him in so she could kiss him. Standing up after she pulled away. Pulling her skirts along with her as she touched a hand to the back of her hair to make sure it stayed in place. Thomas busied himself gliding his hands across her their baby.

“How’s little lemon this morning?” He asks her.

“Making their mother feel a _little_ on the nauseas side…”

Elizabeth explained. Thomas could see through her cosmetics, that she did look a _touch pale_. She placed her hand to meet his, low on her belly as she took a deep breath.

“Will you be alright to take breakfast?” He asks her with concern.

“I’m _damned_ if I let your mother think I’m showing my back…”

Elizabeth growls as she heads for the door. With fire in her eyes, and biting passion in her words.

“ _Heaven help me_ , if you get ardent and fiery like that at breakfast, I’m dragging you away by the arm to my study for some much needed privacy, and I will not hesistate in _having you_ up against a bookshelf again. _God help me_ , Elizabeth kenworthy, You fire my blood when you get all… _fiesty…like that…_ ” He grins.

Thomas smiles like a loon to her as he pulls on his grey velvet overcoat, and follows her. He catches up with her as she awaits him in the hallway. He readily slips his hand through the crook of her arm. And together, conjoined they make their way along a sun drenched corridoor, and head for the stairs.

She gasps at his words. Quite ignoring how heated her cheeks became. And how he slinks his arm down and about her to cup her bottom and pull her close into his side at that.

She shakes her head at that.

“Rake..”

She hisses onto his lips before he kissed her soundly on the mouth.

“You _love it_ …” He winks at her after he pulls away.

“Your _far too_ certain of yourself…”

She awards with a teasing smile. As they come to the stairs, and he holds onto her tight as he helps her down them. He would not have her falling down them for anything in the world. After all the bad luck they’ve had to endure through. He wouldn’t allow for her, in her delicate state, to be harmed by a careless little trip.

“Yes I am. But, I’m also certain that you’re just ribbing me about my charms. Though deep down, you _love me_ all the more ardently for them…”

“I _must do_ … _Mustn’t I_?”

She answers. Stroking and patting her swelling belly to prove her point.

“You will be bereft of _so many_ excuses once _our_ small human exits you…” He tells her wisely.

“Well. If I love you so dearly as much as you so claim. Then it sounds like I won’t be without the excuse for very long after this one arrives…” She answers.

Thomas looks quizzically at her for a long moment. Still navigating the both of them through the house,

“Did you just say you would have _more_ than one of my children?” He asks her.

“Depends…” She smiles.

“On?” He asks. Needing so much more information on the subject…

She smiles wickedly.

“If the first one has dark hair. We shall have to have a _rematch_ and hope the second has my colouring. If you were serious in what you said last night. But I think we should sire atleast _one readheaded_ child. Purely to see If it would so greatly _vex_ your mother…” She grins.

She squeaks as Thomas leans over and attacks her with a brutally forceful snog. When they pull away, Elizabeth learns that her lips felt bruised, she was air starved, and struggling to stay upright, and not go all airheaded and dream like.

“I married the best woman on the entire planet…”

He sighs. Himself too, looking a little flushed and dazed from the sudden sheer force of the kiss.

She chuckles.

“I think we may need to get to the breakfast room…” She peeps.

“Why is that?” He asks her.

“ _Because_ …” She gasps.

“Between you, and.. _this…_ ”

She explains stroking her belly

“I feel a little weak and _faint_ all of a sudden.” She explains.

“Say no more…”

Thomas smirks, holding her close as he guided her there, taking her arm.

She rolls her eyes.

“And stop looking so _bloody_ pleased with yourself, Kenworthy… you _know_ you’re a good kisser…”

She awards as they come to the top of the grand staircase.

Thomas smiled, smugly.

“It’s nice to have the confirmation.” He speaks back.

They make it down the stairs, miraculously without Thomas pouncing upon his wife anymore. They make it down to the foyer, and round them coming down the hallway that led them to the finely decorated Breakfast room. Bedecked in tones of blue and white, The room was airy and bright. And hosted a good view across the lawns and the finely manicured gardens. Thomas and Elizabeth come into the room, to find that there was only Iris, sat drinking coffee on her own, save for that the room was empty.

She smiles at the sight of her Brother and his Wife. Both of whom she was thankful for. She didn’t want to have to face her mother alone. Iris was humble, and genteel. Caroline knew how best to exploit that. She always had done. Ever since Iris was a teen. She was glad that she had some support here, with her. To face the horrors that came along with their mother.

“Morning Iris.”

Elizabeth calls as she moves into the room. Crossing to give her best friend a kiss on the cheek. Easing down into the seat next to her, which Iris pulled out for her to sink into. Thomas stayed stood at the head of the table, picking up the paper and reading over the front page.

“Did you manage to get back to sleep alright last night?”

Elizabeth asks kindly, folding her napkin across her lap. Seeing that Iris looked a little fatigued. There were heavy bags under her eyes, weighing down her face like grey half moons under her tired smoky eyes.

“Not _terribly_ well. I had Judith insisting on crawling into my bed after our little awakening. She is terribly _fidgety_ in her sleep. I fell asleep somewhere near 4, I believe…”

 _“Oh_ , Goodness…” Elizabeth winces.

“If she ever wakes up like that again. Send her in our direction if you like. I imagine I shall need practice in attending to _sleepless_ little humans in the coming months…” Elizabeth smiled.

Iris made a noise into her teacup as she sipped her coffee.

“ _Oh,_ I wouldn’t wish _that_ upon _anyone_ …” Iris smiled genially.

Elizabeth smiled.”I mean it…” She promised, patting her sister-in-laws hand.

“Where are the girls anyway?”

She asks, accepting the arts and leisure section of the paper from her husband. Who eases into his seat, by his sister’s side. At the head of the table, in his usual spot. Elizabeth had migrated over to Iris’s side in the past few weeks.

“Edith insisted on taking the task of dressing Judith’s hair this morning. Judith brought new little red ribbons, and Edith is far more artful with hair than I am anyway. I believe she is Judith’s preference…”

Iris explained. Rubbing a hand down her face, trying to look more energised than she felt.

“I take it your mother isn’t up yet?” Elizabeth asked.

“Indeed not.” Iris told. Sounding a little grateful.

 _“Thank christ for that happy miracle…”_  

Thomas mumbled under his breath as his eyes swept over the politics section of his paper.

“I’ll say it, _we’re all thinking it_. Let us be thankful for lifes small miracles. And that our knife tongued, wretchedly ill mannered mother cannot summon the energy to crawl out of bed as early as the rest of us...”

He spoke in a low tone.

Iris shot him a look, which seemed to say a lot, though her eyes still looked like lazy bolts of silver lightning. Thomas recognised that look on his sisters face. It almost seemed to say _‘I concur.’_ As did the look that flashed across his wifes face, it was the elephant in the room. None of the ladies wanted to say it aloud. Elizabeth had never been more pleased to see Wilkin's sweep into the room in all her life. She ordered a big pot of tea, for her and Thomas to share. No food as of yet. She felt sick even _smelling_ the delicious aromas wafting up from the kitchen. Tea would do nicely.

It was at that point, little foosteps barelled towards the breakfast room door, followed by slower, more even gaited steps.

“I bet your shiniest penny I know who _that_ is..”

Thomas smiled in wry humour. His eyes catching his Wifes.

Elizabeth smiled, but more so as she peered across to the door to see both her two young nieces glide through it. Judith first, tottering into the room, and a very exasperated Edith trailing after her. Today Judith wore a very nice little cream dress with capped sleeves, and little buttons leading down the back. There were white stockings on her legs, and bright little red shoes on her feet. She tore through the room, running to her usual spot opposite her Aunt and her Mother at the dining table. Chirping a happy and boisterous good morning to Thomas, Princess Elizabeth, and her Royal Advisor.

Pretty soon, her majsety was happily hoisted up onto her throne, and sat smiling at all her loyal subjects around the dining table about her. Edith sat next to her. Thumping down this mornings book onto the tablecloth. Twirling a cloud of dust up into a shaft of moonlight, which beamed onto the table, from the window behind her.

“Today’s book?” Elizabeth asked.

Edith smiled. Elizabeth always became curious about what paperbacked obstacle her niece would take up next. Edith liked that she cared enough to ask, and was _almost_ a bigger bookworm than she was…

“Wordsworth.” Edith grinned.

“My eyes don’t decieve me often, sweet niece, I definitely see _two_ books before you…”

Thomas smirked as Elizabeth handed him a cup and saucer of tea. And he sipped from it, giving his niece a wide grin. His eyes gleaming in mirth and fun.

“It was a hard choice between Wordsworth and Oscar Wilde…” Edith confessed.

“Were we in the _‘W’_ section today by any brilliant chance?” Elizabeth asks.

"Indeed so." Edith smiles merrily. 

“And I’d go for Wilde. More variety. Wordsworth was terribly obssessed with his own morality. Wilde was _far_ more imaginative in what he penned to page…” Elizabeth offered.

Edith smiled.

“Wilde has it. _I’m sold_ …”

She smiles, discarding Wordworth as Elizabeth chuckled, sipping on her tea.

“Glad I could be of help…” The Duchess smiles.

“Mama?…”

Judith spoke up suddenly. Imposing herself on the coversation. Always managing to turn it in a different direction whenever she opened her little mouth, and spoke up what thoughts lay on her brain. Most - not all - but most of Judith’s outbursts began dangerously. Or, if they began safe, they would soon wander into some rather _dangerous_ areas for a five year old…

“Who was that funny lady who Edith said broke into our house in the middle of the night?” Judith asked.

Iris sighed, frowning and looking at her eldest. Whom her youngest was clearly parroting. Who barked a _‘Judith’_ at her younger pest of a sister.

As it was, Elizabeth sipped her tea, trying not to snort out laughter. Which was less than Thomas, whose chuckle was clearly heard before he sought to accelerate into a coughing attack as Iris glared grey daggers at him.

“She did not break in Judith. And that _‘funny lady’…”_

Iris began, looking pointedly at Edith, who had clearly been sayng less than favourable things – most likely badmouthed things - to her younger sister when she put her to bed last night, about their absentee troublesome Grandmother. Trouble was, Judith’s brain took everything in, like _a sponge._

“… Is your Grandmother Caroline, Judith. And whatever Edith told you. Please _do not_ repeat it in front of her…” Iris asked sternly.

“Why?” Judith asked.

“…Because it is most likely _rude._ If I know Edith well enough, and her feelings about her to be at all correct…”

“But _Why?”_ Judith asked again.

Iris sighed, closing her eyes, before she opened them and resumed her speech.

“Because. We weren't raised to be _rude_ , _were we?”_ Iris asked.

“No.” Judith answered.

“Good.” Iris sighed with relief.

“Now when Caroline comes downstairs, we will be polite, and well mannered to her, _shan't we?”_

Iris asked Judith. Though her eyes struggled not to include Edith in her glaring gaze too.

“Yes.”

Judith grinned, swinging her legs under the table.

Iris raised her brows at her eldest. Whom, it had to be said, looked a little miffed at having to play happy family in front of their unscrupuled relative.

“I shall be civil to her…” Edith mumbled in a low tone. 

 “And that is _the best_ I can manage.” She promised.

Iris looked as stern as Elizabeth had ever seen her – or seen her try to be.

“Edith…” Iris warned.

“ _Oh, very well…”_ She sighed exhuastively

“I will be the perfect embodiment of charity and kindness to the woman. _How’s that?”_ Edith asked

“Wonderful..” Iris intoned.

“….But if she insults anyone – _which she most probably will_ \- I am not responsible for the actions of my temper, my tongue, and my brain…” She confessed stiffly.

“That will _do_ for me…”

Iris held up her hands in surrender. She inherited her father’s stubborn fortitude. And that of her Uncles. She backed down from Edith's defensive.

“Spoken like a _true poet_ , Edith..” Elizabeth complimented.

Edith smiled a little at that. Looking a little less narked.

“And may I say, I will be in the same boat as you. I will reflect whatever tepid sentiment is thrown my way under the guise of kindess and civility. If last nights comments are anything to go by…”

Elizabeth spoke, looking over to Thomas who gave her a supportive look.

“She was rude to you?”

Edith asked, the look on her face told everyone that she was not quite able to believe anyone could talk down toward their saintly aunt.

“The first three things she said to me were, bashes at my weight. My class, and then she insulted my hair, and tried to wrangle Thomas into ordering me to bed…” Elizabeth told.

"For even I, have not mastered _that art_ yet.."

Thomas grinned indelicately. Winking at Elizabeth over his paper. 

She continued as if he had not spoken. 

“But as it is. I myself am not going to let her get to me. As well you shouldn’t. I am burying the rotten hatchet and moving on. New day, new words new..... _first_ impressions..” Elizabeth explained.

Edith’s mouth gaped open. And she leaned forwards. Looking most peturbed.

“And you expect me to be civil to the loathsome creature who forms those hateful words to our family?”

She asked with obvious distaste and raging scepticism to her mother. 

“Edith. It would be far simpler to – as Elizabeth said - bury last nights events and move on. I know she has _hurt us. All of us_. But spitting fury at her, will not make us feel _any the better_. Though she is a chore. She is _your grandmother_ by blood. Blood is thicker than water dear. We cannot wash away those impurities, simply because we do not like them. We have to take this with a pinch of salt.” Iris told her eldest.

Edith crossed her arms.

“Fine. But if she is horrid to my Aunt again. I’m not responsible for my detriment of her persons.” Edith told.

Iris smiled, meekly.

“For that much I am thankful.” Iris settled.

“ _Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war…*”_

Edith then murmered quietly under her breath. Seeing Elizabeth and Thomas smile into the brim’s of their teacups.

It was then, that everyone in the breakfast room heard footsteps echo along the corridoor, coming to the dining room where they were all merrily ensconced. When the door creaked open, everyone turned to see the cause of their sleepless night, and their collective wrath – save for Judith. Who didn’t really know anything but that she had _‘broken in’_ apparantly. But whom was under a vow of silence from her mother… However long that would last.

_“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here...**”_

Thomas hushed quietly before he shut himself up by taking a sip of tea. Seeing this made everyone – except Iris – titter into their teacups. Iris fixed Thomas with a glare that told him he should be a little more respectful. Elizabeth looked over to see her tenacious Mother-in-law glide into the room. Smiling genially at all of them. A note of proud nobility dancing away in her wickedly blue eyes. Today, she wore a flawless gown, her dark hair coiffed finely atop her head. And she wore a ivory striped gown, with an elegant collar and a modest cut. One of which let everyone know she came from money. She dripped wealth and elegance. Like she had last night. But, not in an entirely _pleasant_ way, the look in her eyes was a little pointed. Daggered. Like she thought herself better than other people because of her high title.

“So. This is where we are all hiding this morning then?”

She asks coming to the table, standing beside Thomas. Smiling too widely at her two grandchildren across the room from her.

“Ohh. You must be _my_ grandchildren… Such a fine, _pretty_ pair of girls…”

Caroline smiled, crossing past Thomas and coming to stand by Edith. Who was sat near to her Uncle. Thomas gave her a bolstering look and a shuttering a wink as he mouthed the word _‘Devil’_ across the table to her to brighten her spirits.

“ _We have brains too, fancy that… novel isn’t it…”_ Edith mumbled under her breath.

“ _Edith…”_

Iris warned from across the table. Her grey eyes bright with threat. – as much as she could muster, anyway.

Edith bit her tongue, as per suggestion.

Caroline smiled down at her eldest grandaughter.

“You are fond of books, so your mother tells me…” Caroline smiles.

“ _Beguiled_ …”

Edith smiles sweetly up at the woman whom was stood above her.

“I myself am not one for reading. Why pick up a dusty old book when there is an entire world out there. To be lived and explored in…”

Caroline surmised as she passed Edith, coming to Judith.

“What _good_ can come from hiding your nose away in a musty old book for your _entire_ life?”

She asked as she moved past Judith coming to a spare seat.

Edith, still slumped back in her seat, arms crossed, As she titled her head. Giving a clenched jaw, glare at her mother. Looking extremely irritated.

Iris gave her a helpless look. But otherwise a look that told her to remain composed – _as far as she was able._

“I am ten and six years old, Grandma, hardly an age to be travelling the world all by _oneself_ …”

Edith spoke up.

“Nonsense. If your mother had _any sense_ of raising an all rounded, cultured young woman, she should have taken you abroad years ago… There are such things to see there. You _really are_ missing out on _all the fun_. Edith.”

Caroline supposed, stopping to put her back to the now tense Edith, as she stared out across the lawn from the window. _The garden’s looked an abomination. Such garish flowers in every patch. And the grass looked a little brown. That needed tending too whilst she was here to stay…_

“Oh. _Poor me_ …”

Edith growled lowly. Giving her Grandmother a glare into her back.

“And please, Edith, I cannot stress this enough, _please do_ call _me Caroline_. Calling me Grandma makes one feel impossibly ancient…”

She laughed.Turning back to see that Edith snapped on a false smile as she ground out her response.

“Will.do.”

She gruffed out.

“And you, you pretty little thing, must be my _little Jane_ …”

Caroline smiled down at Judith, who blinked her big blue eyes up at the woman now speaking to her. Judith took a break from trying to shove her crusts into her toy giraffes face.

Judith frowned at the woman. Blinking in that innocent and searching five year old way. Curiosity, mixed with caution and notice.

  “ _Judith,_ Mother. Not Jane…” Iris corrected.

Caroline seemed to frown a little at that.

“Jane is a much more, _prettier,_ name…” Caroline rudely pointed out.

“Judith is the name John and I liked best…” Iris pressed.

Caroline raised a brow.

“Very well..” She sighed in a displeased manner.

“Though I’m not sure why you trusted in _that man’s_ judgement…”

She explained with an obvious note of distaste lining her voice.

“Are you the _mad lady?”_ Judith asked Caroline suddenly.

Edith and Elizabeth both spluttered out laughter. At Caroline’s spearing look. Edith shuffled in her seat and reached for the toast rack. Turning her head away so she couldn’t see her mirthful smile. And Elizabeth made play of wiping her mouth on her linen napkin. Thomas was lucky enough to hide behind the paper he folded in front of his face. Though she could see it shake as he tried not to giggle.

“Judith. That is a _very rude_ thing to say to your grandmother…”

Iris called from across the table.

Judith blinked as if she had done nothing wrong.

“But yesterday Edith said that there was a mad lady downst-“

“ _Yes_. We don’t need to hear _anymore_ …” Iris cut her off.

“Unless you can _improve_ on the silence, Judith. Keep your remarks to the weather.” Iris warned.

Judith took this in with a little blink of her eyes, before she twisted round In her seat, peered out of the window. Before she turned back to face the woman who had now sat herself down at the head of the table. Next to Elizabeth.

“It appears to be sunny today. Mrs Mad Lady.”

Judith spoke in a grin to Caroline.

Elizabeth bit her lip so hard, she had to lick her lips and quickly reach for more tea. To give herself something to do. Things to stir and pour. Before she burst into laughter. Edith nearly shoved an entire slice of toast into her mouth. Her mouth comically full. Just so the chewing would disable her laughing. Thomas was inspecting his lap and trying to think of serious, sad things to distract himself.

“I _am sorry._ Mother. But, Judith rarely filters her thoughts through her brain before she speaks…”

Iris explained to her mother. Able to feel a tension headache coming on. It really was a chore and a half to get anyone at the table, child or otherwise, to behave this morning.

Caroline smiled meagrely.

“How long are you expecting to stay with us, Mother?”

Thomas asked as he folded the paper in two and handed it across to Edith adjacent to him.

“For a little while. Whilst I conclude my business affairs here…” She explained.

“Business affairs?”

Thomas asked. He’s not sure. But he _didn’t like_ the sound of that.

“Just some papers to push, letters to send. The usual... _boring_ things” She waved off with a sweet dismissive smile.

Thomas’s attention was piqued at that. And in _all the wrong ways,_ too.

She then frowned at Edith levered open the paper, and folded it over to begin reading. She saw Elizabeth had a section of it in front of her too.

“What are you _doing_ , Edith?” Caroline asked.

Edith met her eyes, appearing confused at such a question.

“I’m sorry?” She asked.

“You let her read _the paper_? Thomas, Iris?”

Caroline asked in an offended manner.

“Yes. Matter of fact, I _encourage it._ And have done since the day she learned to read… _”_ Thomas held out.

“Thomas, that _is most improper_ for any young woman to be incited to read the newspaper…” Caroline scoffed.

“If I may, what is considered wrong about reading the paper?” Elizabeth asked

“I do not know how you were raised in your, _modest_ , household, Elizabeth. But in ours, it is considered rude and highly inappropriate for a debutante to imerse herself in matter of politics and current affairs…” Caroline told. The way she said modest sound like she wanted to spit ' _poor_ ' instead. 

Elizabeth frowned a little, setting down her teacup.

“Forgive me, but I don’t see anything wrong, nor insulting with having a fondess for learning of the world and all it’s changing times… improving ones mind my extensive reading is no harmful thing, Mrs Kenworthy, matter of fact, it is the least harmless hobby a girl can have…” Elizabeth held out.

“Whilst that may be. Elizabeth, But that is the difference between you, and us. You _need_ to read about the world to experience it’s climates and it’s variety. But people _like us_ have _no need_ for that. Our world is certain. We are nobility. Landed Gentry. Something of which I don’t expect you are _quite used_ to yet. Having only been married a mere month. Then again, being the daughter of a professor who has, _remarried._ And as your mother was an arts teacher. I suppose you were allowed to read the paper as it was more suited to your… _lower class needs._ We here in Derbyshire have no needs for such low life vulgarity in this house as a morning paper being forced upon young women to improve their minds. We know important things. Not the things that are beyond our concept…”

Caroline explained. Her eyes glittering cruelly at the red headed Duchess.

No one spoke for a long moment. Edith looked pale, and turned her head towards her Aunt. Who seemed frozen. Her face not knowing quite which insult to process first. Everyones eyes were on Elizabeth. Except for Judith who was wondering why the mad lady was being so mean, as she shoved crusts into her toys mouth some more. Elizabeth was speechless. _Had Caroline Kenworthy been rotting around her life? Spewing out details about her mother, and her father…_

Before anyone could speak. Caroline filled the silence. – but in hindsight, it would have been better if she had not spoken at all.

“Anyway… now that _unsavoury_ matter has been put to bed… Thomas. You will never guess whom I bumped into in Castleton? Lady Selina Hastings. Do you remember her? She is such a well respected, _titled_ woman…”

She smiled. Obviously the way she spoke _‘titled’_ in a pointed way, was meant to wound Elizabeth with the way she spat it at her.

“You remember you were very good friends with her daughter? Such a sweet girl she was. Miss Anabelle. A very beautiful girl. Lovely dark hair, good fortune, plus you know she is the eldest daughter of a _Lord…_ did you know her dowrie is almost £35,000 _. Now that_ wouldn’t be a harmful connection to rekindle… Plus, If I remember rightly, she was very _sweet_ on you…” Caroline cooed to her son. 

Elizabeth couldn’t take any more of this.

She felt _sick_. Her skin crawled with hatred and revulsion to this woman. Speaking over her to Thomas, as if she wasn’t even sat there. Insulting her family, her rank in society. Whilst pushing him toward another woman. Whilst she sat there, with a wedding ring on her finger, and Thomas’s baby growing inside her.

She was hyperventilating. She had to get away. Her mouth was dry, and her head was pounding. With both rage and tears, biting hot and prickling at the back of her eyes.

_This woman…_

She jerked to her feet. And slammed her linen napkin down on the table. She stood up so fast her chair scraped and screamed on the wooden floor. And with one acutely poisonpus glare that could have killed sent in Carolines smirking direction, she tore her body away from the table. Muttering a strict and firm ‘ _excuse me’_ as she stormed away. She didn’t care if she was being rude. She had to get away from that impossible woman. She would not allow herself to cry in front of her.

Edith, and iris watched her go. Looking empathetic. With pinched expressions they watched her wrench open the door and tear through it. Walking quickly away. Stemming the tears with the back of her hand.

Caroline looked to Thomas. Who gave her such a look, his eyes looked like frost. His jaw clenched.

“Proud of yourself?” He snapped.

“Keep your toxic thoughts to yourself in the future… _So help me god_ , I don’t care if you’re my own mother, you speak to _my wife_ like that again, I will throw you out to find elsewhere to stay…”

He snaps in a harsh order. Looking scarily angry to everyone elses eyes. Before he too tore out of the room. Heading after his Elizabeth.

There was a moments silence after the ladies all watched him storm away. The clock ticked, and wind rustled the window outside. Before Caroline spoke up again. And this time, it was Edith who glared at her. Unashamedly now. The lousy woman deserved it.

“Was it something _I said?”_  

The Dowager Countess asked perfectly seriously.

 

~

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth still has one of the roses that Thomas gifted her with on the morning after he first met her. It is dried and pressed in a book. She never could bring herself to discard it. More importantly, it is pressed between the pages of Thomas’s favourite book which she has a copy of. She finds it every now and then, leafing through the pages of Alfred Tennyson’s, ‘Ulysses‘ She smiles when she sees it. Edith borrowed the book once. But when she saw the dried white rose, she returned it to its rightful place on the shelf, with a wonderful smile. Knowing her Aunt and Uncle are very much passionately in love...


	75. Embraces, Strategies, and Alone Time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will say one thing: Edith rules.

 

 

 

For a moderately paced woman, Thomas learned that the Duchess of Chatsworth couldn’t half move herself when she needed to.

 _He couldn’t find her_.

And yet she had moved out of the room, a mere _matter of seconds_ before him. She really was a remarkable woman in some aspects, some of which he was only _just learning_ of. He began by striding down the hall to her study. Which came up empty. He tried the downstairs library. But really, _how far_ could she have gotten?

He passes Wilkin’s in his urgent travels of trying to find Elizabeth. And even he claimed he had not seen her. He was beginning to wonder if his wife had not done a rather clever, and opportunely timed vanishing trick.

That is, until he comes to the orangery. It was a pleasant april’s day, the summer breeze was warm, and pleasant, to go along with the gentle slopes of sunshine that bathed the house and gardens. But even he knew enough to know that no one member of his staff ever usually left the french doors thrown wide open. The sheer white curtains drifting up in the breeze. And beyond that, stood out, down below in the gardens. He could see his wife. Tendrils of her red hair blowing back in the breeze. Her arms were hugging her torso, wrapped firmly about herself. As she stared off into the distance, looking off over the woods and the gardens. Her skirts were blown back about her body. And he couldn’t see her face. But her posture said _enough_. She was agitated, upset and quite rightly offended by what Caroline had said to her.

He makes quick work of the tiled orangery floor, his long legged stride eating up the distance quickly. Brushing the whipping curtains aside as he came through the wide open doors. Elizabeth heard his boots clack on the tiles, and then the crunch under the soles of his feet as he stepped onto the gravel and came up behind her. She didn’t turn to face him. and she didn’t want too. She had tears tracking salty trails down her cheeks. And All she knew, was that if Caroline was going to stay for a long time. Then she was going to have to put up with a lot _worse_ than her patronising smile.

Thomas says nothing. Purely because he knows he can offer her nothing but an apology and his thundering anger. And right at that precise moment. He’s not _even sure_ an apology will suffice for what the Dowager Countess barked at her.

His hands find her waist, and he hooks himself close to her, Crooking his chin to rest down in the slope of her neck as he lays a gentle kiss onto her skin there. His actions speaking louder, and saying more meaningful things than meagre words ever could.

“She’s been a busy woman, your mother. Diving into the limitless private details of my life… digging up things about my Mother, my Father...”

Elizabeth whispers gently, to him, and him alone as he sighs, slow and deep. His breath ruffling her fiery hair as he pressed a kiss to her hair now instead. She could feel his breath toy with the silken skin behind her ear.

“I don’t think any apology I can fathom now will quite be _adequate_ enough to make up for her appalling behavior…” Thomas spoke softly.

“Why is _she back_ , Thomas?”

Elizabeth asks in a strong tone, turning to face him. His hands stayed linked to her waist, sliding around her now to hold the front of her body as she turned herself into him. His _heart hurt_ on seeing her so upset. Her blue eyes all foggy with unshed tears. Her cheeks wet. And her beautiful expression pinched. Somewhere resting between pain and sorrow. With a little flare of anger underlining her eyes.

“I don’t know _why._ _I don’t like not_ knowing _why…”_

He offers. Which made him feel foolish and a little helpless. Two things of which he _hated being._

“You said it yourself. After the death of her husband, there was _nothing_ for her here as she so claimed, There were _no ties_ for her in this house. She would write if she needed money. And that was the extent of her contact with you. So _why_ is she _back now?_ Something has made her come here… Back to England...” Elizabeth insisted.

“I don’t like her being here. I think she’s hiding something. And whatever _that_ _something_ is. It’s… _oh, I don’t know._ Gut feeling. Don’t you have that gut instinct?” She asked.

She hit the nail on the head here. He too understood what she meant. There was curioisity and mistrust as his gut decision as soon as he saw her stood on their doorstep. With the two of them feeling it, he know’s he can’t very well ignore it. There was something untoward about her _sudden_ trip home.

Thomas knew she was right, and as she spoke, her tone upset, he tried to soothe her. His big, warm smooth hand fondled the stray red curl at the back of her neck.

He considered what she had to say.

“There is _something_ I can do…”

He told his Wife. But his tone made her a little uneased.

“What would that be?”

She asks in a somewhat cautious manner.

The look in his eyes when they met hers, was a little dark and remosrseful. He wet his lips before he spoke. He didn’t want to stray down this path. But. He had too. 

“She did her digging. There’s nothing to stop us doing a little _digging_ of our own…”

He says in a perfectly serious tone. Though his eyes looked a little brighter.

Elizabeth looked doubtful.

_He would go behind his own mother’s back to try and gain information?_

“I know someone who is the best in the buisness. Redsmith, his name is. The best private detective this side of Warwick.” He offers.

Elizabeth shook her head slightly, looking unconvinced.

“You’d… _spy_ on your own Mother?”

She asked him. He would be willing to go behind her back because he didn’t trust her. That was no small thing for him to do. But. _His_ wife was upset. _His_ Mother was causing it. If this was the way to fix it, then consequence be _damned_.

“We all want to know why she’s here. If she will not tell us willingly. Then she has forced my hand. I know I’m not the only one. Iris, and Edith would want to know too. Caroline Kenworthy has not come without her problems in the past…” He informed.

She tilted her head.

“Define problems…” She asks.

“A year after John’s death, and the war, I receive a letter, posted and stamped from Turkey, saying that unless I forwarded a large sum of money to pay her outstanding debts. She would…”

He paused. Swallowing. Obviously the next words were a great source of shame and pain for him. And as he spoke, she understood why.

“… She would be thrown into a Turkish _prison_. She had skipped out on payments for hotels, bills and the rents for lavish apartments from Ankara to Austria.” Thomas told.

“Almost £15,000’s worth.” He offered.

Elizabeth looked shocked and a little uneased.

“Do you think she could be in _more_ finacial trouble?” She asks.

Thomas quirked a dark brow.

“Let me put it this way. She has gaggles of Ladies and friends from here to Timbuktu, and, _god I love you to pieces_ , so forgive me for this, but I don’t think news of our marriage _nor_ our little lemon would sustain her reason for travelling back home again…” Thomas spoke truthfully.

“She didn’t even stay to see Iris marry John. Not her granchildrens births, John’s death. _Nothing_ brought her back.” Thomas told her.

Elizabeth met his eyes.

“Is is the right thing to do then, do you think?” She asks, a little more converted now.

“I believe it is our _only_ choice. She won’t open up. She leaves us with _no_ alternative option on the matter.”

He tell’s her, stroking a hand down her arm.

“We call out her bluff. Find out why she’s here. Why she decided to come back. Imposing her horrible self and her cruel words on us all.” He explains.

Elizabeth came to see sense in his words. She nodded, wiping away the wetness which still laid on her pale on her cheeks. She let herself curl closer into the comfort his towering frame provided. The paradise of tranquility which his open arms would always be there to impart on her. He crossed his arms over her back, pressing into her shoulders, and hugging her close.

“Write to this, Redsmith, man.”

She instructed with a brave nod. If he was straying into dangerous waters, treading the deep end, then she’d be _right there_ by his side in the tempest. Holding his hand through it all.

She had said as much in their wedding vows, and she’d honour them til her last breath. _Til death did they part._ They made this decision as partners, as a team. As one.

“… _First_ thing tomorrow…”

He promises her with a nod. Kissing her head. Holding her close. As she listened to his heartbeat. And he revelled in feeling her in his arms. His hound found hers, and his fingers slid through her own, entwining their hands. Not needing to say _anything_ at all. Twining his hand through hers said it all. He felt the ice of her wedding ring brand his palm.

He knew then, that he wasn’t doing this for kicks, to finally shut up his fetid mouthed mother. He was doing this to protect his _family_. His Sister. His nieces. His Wife. And His baby. If Caroline Kenworthy was here, and could bring trouble their way. Thomas knew this was the _best_ course of action.

“You should know something…”

He speaks then, pulling back to look at his beautiful wife. Smiling softly as he did. The hand that held hers brought up to his chest, kissing her knuckles, before laying their hands against his chest. His other hand still stroking back along her pale neck. His eyes softened into that loving gaze as they held contact with her own.

“If things had been different. Even if my mother had the _strongest will_ in the world to keep us apart. Know that I would crawl a thousand, _a million_ , miles on broken glass on my bare hands and knees to make you mine. Or even to tell you I loved you. _Just once._ If anything, her refusal to accept we are wed only serves to make me want you _all the more passionately._ And you and I, know for a fact that I’m _very disobedient_. I’m utterly deaf to her attempts to convince me otherwise that you’re not the woman for me…”

He smiled, leaning in close to press a sweet kiss to her lips. His words softening to a hush as he finished speaking, to let himself kiss her. Elizabeth smiled into their embrace. Her free hand reaching up to stroke down the side of his jaw as he kissed her.

“You’re _all mine_  Mrs Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy. And nothing anyone can ever say will change that. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Whether _you like_ it or _not_.”

He tells her, smiling gladly at her. Seeing her smile was returning too.

“What an _unfortunate_ situation…”

She japes smiling, leaning her forehead to touch to his collarbone. Nuzzling into her husband. Loving the scent of him, his musky clean cologne, calming her. She pressed a kiss of her own onto the warm column of his neck. Hugging him tight. He chuckles as he holds her back, just as lovingly.

“I know I promised to be full of fire and rage to your mother if she insulted me again. But I don’t want to face any more conflict today. I’m…too...  _tired_. I just want a peaceful day, away from trouble. I think I just want to be alone, and stew in my own thoughts for a little while…”

She asks. Knowing he would have work of his own to attend to. If she was lucky, perhaps she could ask for a tray of tea, and then lock herself away in her study all day, and curl up with a good book and get utterly lost in it’s pages.

“Tell you what. There’s nothing of any urgency on my desk. I think matters of _Dukely_ business can wait a while…”

Thomas smiles. Looking down at his wife.

Elizabeth looked bewildered.

“Thomas? What are you saying?”

She asks with a curious smile.

“ _Stuff_ work. I’m spending the day with you. Anything you want to do, name it. _We’ll do it…_ ” He smiles.

Elizabeth beamed at him.

“Thomas, I’m not a child I can entertain myself. I don’t need your protection from your Mother. I can spend the day in my _study_ …” She told him.

He shook his head.

“ _Not an option_ , I’m afraid. As I said. You are stuck with me. So for today, you are _literally_ stuck with me..” He tells her.

“What would we do?” She asks.

Thomas waggles those dark brows of his, before one look from her seems to shut him up.

 _“Name_ something…”

He encourages her.

“ _I don’t_ … _know… um_ , a - _go f_ or a walk?” She asks in a searching tone.

Thomas made a below par ‘ _mmmn’_ noise.

“Walk’s only last _an hour_ at best. And I don’t know about you, but compared to 12 years not seeing my mother, an hour away seems rather _cheating_. No. We need something that will take us away from the house for a good _three or four hours…”_

He predicts, narrowing his eyes, looking off into the distance, before they grew bright.

“Have you seen the wild flower meadows yet? Past the stream, up the woods a little way?” He asks her.

She shook her head.

His smile grew wide, and his eyes shone proudly.

“A fine spot for a picnic up there, Mi’Lady. Theres not a cloud in the sky. _That,_ is what we are doing…”

He finishes, having the final word on it. Hugging her close.

“You’re awfully _bossy_.”

She chides into their embrace.

“Run’s in my blood, I believe…”

He answers. Kissing her head again. Holding her close with a proud smile. Looking forward to theor afternoon in the sun. He could think of nothing better than lounging about, under the shade of some tree, rolling about on a rug with the best wife in the world. An afternoon.

Just them two – _well, three, if he wanted to get technical and pedantic about it._

It sounded like bliss to him. And if it allowed them to both escape the scrutiny of his Mother, _then all the better_ for it.

 

 

Up in the house, along the second corridoor, which overlooked the terrace, where Elizabeth and Thomas could be seen embracing on the lawn. Little did they know a pair of sharp blue eyes, belonging to one certain Dowager Countess, were burning down at the pair of them. Daggering the hugging couple with a icy glare of her frightful eyes. She had gone in pursuit of the Duke after he had run after his, _assaultingly flame haired_ , Duchess. She peered the curtain back a little more to better see them through the window. The sight of their embracing was _sickening._

 _She didn’t like this. Not one bit. There would be no easily seperating them, so it seems._ No. Thomas and his new wife were far too smitten and smart for that. _She had to be wily and clever about this_.

It had _not been_ an arranged match of good breeding and careful consideration. She had it from her Lady friends in London, that Elizabeth Farrow and Thomas Kenworthy were said to have been courting, and _madly in love. More than any couple the season had ever seen._

This needed careful handling. Break apart the marriage, make them see their differences were _too great_ to be united. There was a child involved too. _That was unfortunate_. But, not _every Duke_ in history was a saint. The Woman could be sent away up north somewhere falsely claiming to be a widow, and the child declared a bastard, and the match a scam of her trying to get his money, whilst Thomas instead took a wife of greater fortune, breeding and repute. _That would do nicely_.

Her friends had also told her that Elizabeth Farrow was every bit as respected and valued as an accomplished woman – though she was bordering on being a long toothed spinster. But, Caroline had to remember that this wasn’t personal against Elizabeth. She could have been a living saint… It all paled in significance.

She didn’t have a _title._

_And Titles were everything to her… And whilst she could not stop her daughter marrying a man so below her rank, she would not let the same thing happen to her son. Especially now Theodore was out of the picture. It was all down to her to save this family._

_She’d start by inviting that lovely Anabelle Hastings, and her Mother, over for tea. Get this ball rolling as It were…._

She smiled to herself, pleased to have formed a strategy. She turned back from the window. To head back to the breakfast room.

She jumped clean out of her skin when she saw her Eldest Grandaughter stood behind her.

Eyes stormy. Face resolute. Arms acrossed as she blocked off the woman’s path. Caroline jumped back, her hand pressing to her chest in her shock.

“ _Goodness, Edith._ You _startled_ me. Don’t you know it’s rude and improper to sneak up on someone like _that..”_

She spoke sweetly to her Grandaughter.

“Don’t think I _don’t know_ what your doing…”

The girl snarled lowly.

_Caroline had underestimated this girl._

“I don’t know _what on earth_ you’re talking about.”

She lied, standing a little taller, her eyes looking a little cruel as she looked at the young girl.

“It must be all those novels and books you have your nose buried in. Edith. Building up such _wild_ fantastic stories in your head. It can be a dangerous thing. You can often forget about your own _real life_ …”

Caroline insists with a wry smile, thinking she had the upper hand.

“My sight and mind are fine. I am not _blinded_  to the fact that you are trying to separate Thomas and Elizabeth. I heard what insults you _snarled_ at her yesterday. I know you think she is _beneath him.”_

Caroline’s lips pursed.

“ _Please….”_

She urges. As if she had all the confidence in the world

“This is no business of yours. You are an insignificant, little _child_.”

She patronised, going to move past. Edith, tall and willowy. Blocked her way. Looking furious as she stepped forwards.

“If you think you’ll get _away_ with this… _Grandma._ You’re wrong. Elizabeth is _the best_ thing that has happened to this family since _your leaving_. We love her. We all love her. She is kind, funny, clever, she is good, and she is such a brilliant Duchess, she’d dance literal rings about the airheaded, titled idiots who you are trying to force upon him. Get it into your _thick head_ once and for all, _Granny._ He _loves_ her, and she _adores_ him. They are wed. And they _will_ have their baby together. And not even the likes of the most foul tongued, _old_ Dowager can stop them. And if you so much as try, you shall have me, my mother, the entire staff of this house, all our friends, Aunt Ophelia, and Judith to stop you. So believe me when I say there is not _one thing_ a scheming _old biddy_ like you could do to get In their way. And if you do. I _will personally_ tell my Uncle why it is you have returned…”

Edith promises. Her voice taking every measure to sound like dripping poison as she snarled at the woman. She also took every opportunity, as she had been told the Dowager did not like being called, _old,_ to then make her feel _as ancient_ as was possible.

“How _dare you talk_ to _me_ like that, and what can you possibly tell Thom-”

Caroline began. But her words are then halted she saw the ten and six aged debutante bring something out of her pocket. Waving Caroline’s personal letter in her face. Before she folded it up and put it back in her skirt pockets.

Her bluey grey eyes looked like a cloudy sky. And she smirked cruelly at the woman. She _didn’t_ lock her door after she went down to breakfast. After she slid away to look for Thomas and Elizabeth, she simply snuck into the guest room and helped herself to the stack of letters she found, buried in a secret compartment in the  Dowager's luggage. _Easy._

 _Two could play at her foul little game…_ Edith thought.

Caroline pursed her lips again. She swallowed. Looking stiffly at her scheming little relative.

“Not bad for an ‘ _insignificant little child’? Do you not think?”_ Edith mocked

“You are cursed to get your Uncle and your Grandfathers _horrible_ fortitude..”

Caroline snapped. Trying to direct a barbed comment at the girl.

Edith beamed wickedly.

“I consider that _my greatest_ attribute.”

Edith spoke back. Before she turned to walk away to go to her library.

To ensure she could hide the letter where Caroline would never find it to try a pathetic attempt to snatch it back. But before she went, she couldn’t resist one last barb.

“L _et God weigh me in honest scales and he will know that I am blameless—“_ She quoted.

“Job 31:6. And my personal favourite, _God has numbered your kingdom and put an end to it. - you have been weighed on the scales and found deficient._..” Edith explained.

“And I _learnt that_ from _a book_. You should pick one up _, Grandma._ They’re not so _harmless,_ after all..”

Edith called as she turned and walked away. Seeing that Caroline was now stood, her face toxic and her expression was nothing less than _seething._

“Though I guess if you touch, or _go near_ anything _Holy_ theres a risk of your skin burning and sizzling off, huh?”

She bit back before she dissapeared around the corner. Grinning and _so very proud_ of herself.

 _Her lessons with Reverend Hugh were paying off, after all_. She thinks as she skips away. leaving her grandmother, well and truly _bested._

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Fact: Every year, on their birthdays, Thomas always endeavours to take to Chatsworth kitchens to make a cake for whosever female relatives birthday it is. (Be it Ophelia, Iris, Edith or Judith) This is a day Mrs Elmstone, the cook, dreads. But like clockwork, three times a year, she has a fully grown Duke, covered in flour and cake mix, cluttering up her kitchen. Burning his fingers, dropping eggs, and just generally getting in the way, but, actually, he always seems to master making very good cakes. Much to her surprise. When he manages to burn everything else.


	76. Picnic's for Three, Wildflower Meadows, and The Matter of Curious Caller's...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. At the end. Someone brings Iris flowers. Did you know, sunflowers, according to Victorians, means: false riches, and pride... Interesting? No?!

~ Pretty Chatsworth Scenery ~

~ Elizabeth's Dress ~

 

 ~ A Nice Visual For This Chapter ~

 ~

 

Not a half of an hour later, and Thomas and Elizabeth had managed to procure a small, _stuffed to the brim_ picnic hamper, courtesy of Ethel Elmstone. And after Elizabeth snuck through to her study, and stole away a wool rug off the back of the setee, her and Thomas were off. Slinking off in the direction of the woods, like badly behaved children running away from their parents. When all they were doing, as a matter of fact, was taking some time to be with one another – away from the _horrid prying eyes_ of a certain disapproving Dowager.

As the sun shone down on them both, and birds chirping up high as they circled and dipped in the skies, and the rustle and sizzle of the green leaves on the trees, being ruffled and disturbed by the wind, they both soon found the previous anger, antagonism, and upset they felt, was thawed away as they both strolled along, arm in arm. Smiling and conversing leisurely like no problems were weighting either of them down. Their troubles melted away with every slope of warm comforting sunshine that beamed down onto their skin. They were both damning propriety today. Thomas had shed his suffocating cravat and tie pin, and left it in a bundle on his desk.The neck of his shirt now gaped wide, and he had rolled his sleeves up, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, so it draped open by his sides. It was too hot, and he was in too good a mood to conform to strict formality.

Elizabeth was still in the cream, artfully scalloped gown she wore to breakfast. She wore no restrictive corset under it. And she had put on her most _unattractive, battered_ old leather laced boots. Thomas didn’t seem to mind. Matter of fact, his eyes and smile glowed a touch warm on seeing her lift her skirts and expose her stockinged legs and her perfectly pale, shaped, calves to him as she slid them on her feet. She had brought a blue shawl with her, just in case she grew cold. And when she said she, she really meant that Thomas had _insisted. Firmly_. To help keep the baby warm, he had said. Elizabeth complied, of course. Not wanting an upset Father on her hands.

As they walked along, they engaged each other in idle conversation. Conversation that had no path or meaning to it. It was just friendly chatter that neither of them minded, even if it shifted into silly, ridiculous things. Matter of fact, it was rather refreshing to talk about things that they often didn’t get a chance to, because they were deemed unimportant, or stupid. At present, they had somehow segwayed into talking about their childhoods.

“Come on, _relinquish_ me with the details. _Worst thing_ , you ever did, as a child…”

Elizabeth smiled, as her husband helped her cross over a gap, a sty, in the fence. He held her hand as she climbed over, her skirts in her spare hand. Thomas watched her turn away from him for a secoond, watching the profile, and his eyes swept along her pale neck, in contrast to the flame of her hair as he did. _He would never not adore looking at this woman._ She crossed over to the other side of the dip of the fence, and turned back to look at him. smiling.

“Worst thing?” He asks, trying to pluck one occasion from his head of the several that came to his mind.

“ _Oh, come on_ , you’re not going to try and be _surreptitious_ and lie to me that you were _the golden child,_ who _never antagonised anyone,_ are you?…” She chides.

“I won’t let you pull the wool _over my eyes_. I can imagined you plagued upon that house like a _hellion...”_

Elizabeth grins as he himself crosses the sty, and comes to stand in front of his grinning wife. He smiles reservedly down at her, naughtiness and mirth dancing in his eyes. And he was stood _far too close,_ to suggest he _wasn’t_ at all thinking about kissing his wife. The glint in his eyes, as a matter of fact _, promised it._ To Elizabeth, that gleam was one of the most mesmerising things she _loved_ about him. One thing among the _thousands_ of little things she adored about him.

“I could say the _same for you_. Mrs K. I can almost imagine you racing around Montague Street like a stalwart, little _red haired_ _imp_.”

He smiles down over her. Watching how her coppery hair caught the sun.

“I can _safely assure_ you, my hair was not as dark auburn as it is now. When I was young, it was an _assualting_ shade of carroty red. It really was _an attack on the senses_ . And I _cannot tell_ you how many times I _broke combs_ as a young girl trying to get them through the tangled _mess_ that it used to be. It was like _a birds nest._ My mother always cursed things could happily _live_ on my cranium, and we’d _never any idea_.”

She smiles. Tucking a loose coil back behind her ear. Making him feel cheated. He liked doing that for her. That sweet little action that had beguiled him since he first laid eyes on her lovely hair. Piled up into a coiled coiffure that night at dinner.

“But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the former _lions mane_ that was my hair as a child. And you’re _very cleverly_ distracting me away from the point that we were supposed to be talking about _you…_ ” She chides. Narrowing her blazing blue eyes at him.

 _Damn the wily woman. Caught red handed_. He smirks.

“Don’t _be silly_. I love hearing about, _anything,_ to do with _you_ as a _child_. It’s quite a lovely notion to hear things of you at such an age…” He smiles.

She chuckles as they walk along. Able to hear the nearby stream trickle and flow through the air. Aswell as the slow sizzle of the willow trees as the wind brushed through the long, dragging branches. She looks off into the distance, staring skyward, letting the air warm her face. She smiles. And from the mere sight of her so happy, and care-free, Thomas falls in love with her _all over again._ His eyes cannot help but stay glued to her. And before _he ravishes_ her up against the nearest tree, he decides to divert the conversation elsewhere.

“Seeings as we’re ambling down memory lane, I've always been curious to know, why did your parents name you Elizabeth?”

He asks. A thought that he had always pondered over.

She turns back to him with a chuckle.

“Before I was born, My Mother and Father could not, for the life of them, decide on a baby name. So when I was born, and they knew I was a girl, they said they didn’t even need to consider it. They took one look at my shocking wave of red curls, and decided almost instantly. ‘Elizabeth’ _had_ to be my name..” She smiles.

He chuckles at that.

“After the Bloody haired Virgin Queen, herself?” Thomas asks kindly.

“ _Naturally_ …” Elizabeth beams at him.

“Although greatest and youngest Monarch in all of English History, founder of the Prostestant Church, and The Queen who helped beat the spanish armada makes me a little intimidated to carry the name. I feel, _a little defrauded_. When I think of what she accomplished, when compared to my own achievements. As it is, in my days, all I have done in my life is to stand up to those who bullied me when I was a wallflower.” She adds.

Thomas laughed, pulling her close and pressing a sweet, devoted kiss to her temple.

“You’re _a Queen_ to _my eyes_. _And never you mind_ all such nonsense about laying to waste a Spanish invasion…” He jokes.

“I’ll take my beautiful, fiery haired, stubborn tongued Lady as she is…” He decides.

Elizabeth chuckled, nuzzling into him as he curled an arm around her. Walking along, embracing one another.

“Now come on. You’ ve been told all about my carroty hair. What was the worst thing you did as a child? If you tell me _yours_ , I’ll tell you _mine…_ ” She urges, trying to coax it out of him.

Now that, coupled with the glint in her lovely blue eyes. Was _intoxicating... He could not deny her..._

He smirks, as he sighs. Knowing she was too tenacious to let it go until she had _utter satisfaction_ on the matter.

“The _Worst thing_ …”

He thought for a moment, before he answered her.

“..Would have to be a toss up, between… When I was 10, putting _a toad_ in Iris’s bath to give her a surprise when she came to get in it. Or…. _Um_. The other, would be the time when I, was, 15, _I um,_ I purposefully put _food colouring_ all over my mother’s - _snowy white_ \- foul little, yappy and snappy _lapdog.”_ He smirks.

Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand, as she tried not to laugh, and her eyes shot wide.

“Oh, _Thomas, you didn’t?_ ”

She asked lowly through trying to keep a straight face.

“The bloody little thing _was green_ for _weeks…_ ”

“That _poor animal_ …” She chuckles.

“That animal was a pampered little _brat of a dog_. Under my mother’s instructions it was served raw _lambchops_ for it’s _every meal_. It would _‘yip’_ like mad, and attack _anyone_ it came across. And the foul thing bit me, Iris, and Father plenty enough times. And yet this was the same _fetid creature_ that _adored_ and _never_ harmed my mother, and slept at the end of her bed. She’d coo and fuss over it like it was her _baby._ Though who’d be scared of it, I don’t know. Worst thing the puffball could do was _nibble_ your shoes. A ridiculous fluffy thing, always trussed up in a big pink bow. _Pathetic beastly little thing. ‘Snookie,_ ’ it’s name was, as if the _bloody thing_ wasn’t bad enough. No. My mother had to give it a ghastly name, too.”

He recounted, growling through some of his words, at the displeasure of this horrible sounding animal.

“We all _rejoiced_ when the fluffy thing passed on…” He told her.

“That’s _horrible_..”

Elizabeth smiles shocked. Though, she was giggling.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew the _damn thing_ …” He assures her. “You’d _say exactly_ the same as I just have..” He promises.

“What about yours then? What was the worst thing you did?” He smirks evilly. His eyes growing dark and interested. His smile cheeky and wide.

“Come on. You promised. _I give,_ _you give_. Lady K” He smirks.

“Very well…” Elizabeth beams.

“The worst thing, I ever did, as a child. At the ripe old age of 16, was to sneak out, in disguise, to go to a late night unveiling of one of Mrs Ainsworths Novel’s when it first came out on its dayview…” She smiled brazenly.

Thomas wasn’t _sure why,_ he didn’t even know her at 16, but the thought of her, slipping out of her London home in the dead of night, all to go and source _a book_. But he knew it made him both a little mad, and _unreasonably_ angry. London was _no place_ for a ten and sixed aged girl to wander around alone. Especially at night. He could only imagine, sick to the stomach with _horror_ , if a daughter of _his_ went out, alone, into the night in a large, dangerous city, full of men of whom some had no morals. He would have exploded into such a _rageful temper,_ he’d spit nails and god damn near every damn tool at her when he hauled her home and gave her a good _talking too._ _Anything_ could have happened to her.

“If I were your Father, and you were a daughter of _mine_ , I would have taken you _over my knee_ for that…”

He growls lowly. His blood and temper firing a little. He put aside the way that visual made his groin tighten a little. The sight of her pale peachy backside tinted a nice red from his hand.

“ _Oh,_ _Calm down_.” She chides.

“Do you think I was stupid enough to go as myself? Do you think any self respecting debutante would last five minutes unaccompanied, in the middle of the night? Besides… Mrs Sharpe has her croonies and _spies_ everywhere. I went in disguise, as a _boy..”_

She told him. “Any getting irrationally angry about it would do you no good now, Thomas. It was _eight_ years ago…” She told.

“If we have managed to sire a little girl, and she grows up to imitate your behavior, know I will lock her up and _throw away_ the key, if she does anything so _stupid_ and _reckless_ as that…” He swares

“Well. If she turns out to be anything like me, she’d be wily enough, not to get _caught..”_ Elizabeth grinned like the cat who got the cream.

“How in all _of gods helpers in heaven_ did you _manage that?”_ Thomas asks her. Shocked.

“Your wife is a, _very clever_ woman…” She grins at him.

Thomas gave her a smile that was coupled with a look of disbelief, worry and a great deal of extreme admiration.

“Tell me… _Now_."

He urges. Bringing her close, his hand linked to the back of her waist.

“I waited til most everyone in the house had gone to bed. Which was, about half ten, by the time the kitchens were dead silent, and even my father would be in the upstairs library by then. I, very noisly, walked to my room. Full well knowing that my stepmother and father could hear when I entered by room. Because the floorboards in the landing would creak when I did. So. I changed into the disguise, bound my chest, dressed all in black, and put my hair up into a flatcap. I even put on my old black riding boots to truly finish off the image. Then, I pocketed my money. Slid downstairs, and out of the servants door in the back of the kitchens. Of course, I made sure all the candles in my room were snuffed. So _no light_ could be seen under the door. So everyone would think I was asleep. I set out, on foot to the bookshop, which was a 20 minute walk away, the bookshop, ‘ _Farriers’_ on Berwick Street. I walked there, kept my head down. Bought my copy without someone even batting an eyelid. Ran home, slid in through the back way, and, careful not to make a single noise on the landing, and crept back into my room. I must have stayed up til about three in the morning ready the first few chapters of that book. But it was, _so_ , worth it..” She beams.

“Mrs Sharpe dragged me out of bed at eight as per usual the next morning…” She spoke, her voice going a little wearied as she recounted it.

“There were bags as black as the _ace of spades_ under my eyes that next day, and, I believe fell asleep during the famed Muscial, held every year by Lady Glenworth. Mrs Sharpe never _forgave_ me.” She told.

“ _That’ll_ teach you..” Thomas growled hotly.

“You’ve made your point and position very clear…” She bit back as lowly as he had.

“It’s my job to be worried, _and to worry_ about you. You don’t do make a _credible job enough_ of it.” He smirked, lifting one wry brow at her.

They had been walking all the while as they spoke, taking a somewhat beaten grassy path through an overgrown meadow, with the afternoons sun slanting through the trees. Glowing the light an ochre hue of amber, along with the vivid greenery and mossy shadows cast from the trees. Elizabeth could also see the river, the clear little stream, trickling it’s path down the side of the meadow they now strolled through. Passing under the cooling shade of a willo tree. The sunlight shattering off the little stream. The lulling sound a most pleasant accompaniment to the sou nds of wildlife merrily chirping about them, aswell as the grass thrashing in the breeze. That, along with the more than warming heat of the sun on their skin, makes both the Duke and Duchess sigh a smile of pure, contented happiness. London was all very well and good, you could trawl through as many bookshops as you fancied, take in a show, laugh with mirth at those on stage, or leave enraptured, enriched by the fine performance. You could walk in the park, or attend a museum for all it’s cultural nourishments. Elizabeth always considered London her home, but she felt she belonged in the country. There was no frenzied desire to be anywhere, or do anything in particular. Time seemed to slow down, and the world and _all it’s precipitated issues_ seemed to melt away for her, here.

“Are we far from this delightful picnic spot yet?”

She asks Thomas as they come to follow the path further into the clustered cold shade of the woods. Where the grand towering oak trees above them both crowded together, huddling for space.]

“Not far now. Just beyond this little patch of woods. It is quite enclosed. Not many people, if _but a handful,_ know it is here…” He told her.

“A secluded little hideaway?” She asks with a pretty smile.

“…It is a favourite getaway spot of mine, I admit. Though I haven’t been there _for many years_ , now. I spent my seasons in London through the summer, and it is never quite as.. _lustrous…_ In the Winter. The flowers loose their bloom, which is certainly part of the appeal. But I believe now, that Edith is the only frequent visitor there now. As I recall it, there is an old swing hanging from the oak tree. I think she comes there to get away with her books some days. Or to escape Judith’s tyranny.” He told with a smile.

“I can imagine it becomes her _very well_. She often takes herself off for a solitary hour to her reading. Which, I think considering in comparison what _nuisance_ my sister would cause with an hour to herself, I think you should know that your niece, has indeed, broke the mould.” Elizabeth spoke.

“That she did. Edith is, a girl onto herself. The lovely thing about her, which is _everything_ , is that I needn’t ever worry about her. Of course, I’d protect her with my life. But she has an extraordinary quality to her… a quality of… self suffiency. She really is _unique_ …” He pondered.

Elizabeth smiled. Watching him speak.

“Just like her uncle…” She compliments. “In all the _best_ of ways…”

“Flatterer…” He rasps across with a wink.

Thomas then leads her through a small little wooden gate off the beaten path. Which he pushes open and holds for her to slip through. Watching her take in the beauty of the scene before her. Because it was truly breathtaking. The perfect spot to take to, for some much needed tranquility. It was perfectly enclosed, a fully grown field which burst with a vivid colour and variety of flowers. Wild daisies, poppies, bluebells, violets and too many others to count by eye. The grass was high, and ended just at her fingertips as her hands hung loosely down by her thighs. She took it all in. Drinking in the sight of the powder blue sky, the sloping sunshine, the bursting fat green leaves on the trees, and how this space had quickly worked it’s way up to being one of her favourite spots in Derbyshire. And she was sharing it with the two people she loved most in the entire world. She felt Thomas’s hand glide across her lower back.

“Your speechlessness, as I take it, is supposed to be a rather _grand_ and satisfactory thing?”

He asks her with a smile. He too sweeping his eyes all across the wonderful scene before them. Seeing, that in all his years away, it _hadn’t changed_ a bit.

“Shall we get a spot under the tree over there? Just by the shade of it?”

She asks, pointing across from them, directly adjacent to where they now stood, motioning to the far side of the meadow, where the sun just about reached into a nice nook, just by the oak tree. Where she saw a swing suspended from the high sturdy branch. It swayed empty in the wind.

“I am your servant, Milady.”

He promises her, before he spoeaks his mind, seeing she had chosen a rather shady spot.

“You don’t wish to sit in the sun?” Thomas asked her. “I won’t rat you out to Mrs Sharpe for forgeting your bonnet. _I sware. Dukes honour…”_ He smiles.

“If I sit in the sun for too long, I go all _freckly… More so_ than I _already am…”_ She tells him.

He smiles wide at that. Thinking he would quite like to see the bridge of her nose smattered with _more_ of the delightful little things. The things that he loved to find with his lips on her pale back. He knew where all his favoruite moles were, on her. _Today’s favourite_ was the little dark one to the crook of her neck, nestled only just onto her the junction of her shoulder. He loved nothing more than finding it to kiss when they lay abed together, Sweeping his eyes across her, appreciating her fine, _limitless beauty._

“I’d like to see that…”

He grins gently, watching her stride slowly a couple of paces ahead of him. Kicking her legs forwards to try better to alk through the long grasses that snatched and clawed at her trailing skirts.

Elizabeth made a _‘hmm-mmm’_ noise of dissatisfaction and disbelief at the back of her throat.

They came to their chosen spot, just hidden out of the sun, which barely peeked through the gaps in the trees. The openings inbetween the trees branches, tiny spots of sun freckle and spatter on the grassy emerald floor, which was also strewn with the colourful flowers dotted all over.

She unrolled the tartan rug and let it billow out, spreading open to the ground below them, ballooning for a moment, mushrooming in the air, before it settled with a flick onto the ground. Thomas stood the heavy hamper down by the side of the rug, and both he and Elizabeth lowered themselves down onto it. Groaning as they did, almost instantly, collapsing onto each other. They both managed to sit up long enough to rid themselves of their shoes. Thomas led himself down first. And welcomed his wife to cuddle up close to him, throwing her boots away, she then curled under his arm, pressing her hand to his chest, as his arm folded behind his head, and the other crossed to her body, and slowly stroked his big, male, and warm hands over her bump, and their baby.

He groaned happily. _This was the life, alright,_

“Perfect..” He smiles, letting his eyes flutter closed.

“My mother isn’t anywhere in the near vicinity. I have the world’s most _beautiful wife_ under my arm. The sun is shining. I think, this comes _pretty close_ to the most _potent form of utter happiness_ …” He groans in a smile.

“It does…”

Elizabeth agrees, before his hands reach down to find her thigh, hooking it up and over his body, curling her leg over his hip to better press her body into his. Stroking down her thigh afterwards, feling her through her dress.

“Do you wish to eat before you get _too_ comfortable?”

Elizabeth smiles. Quite knowing she definitely liked the way his hand stroked up to her hip.

“If my Lady insists…” He beams.

She sits up, and he instantly _pines_ at the loss of her, Watching as she sat up and leaned over to reach their picnic hamper. Setting it firly down on the ground, she opened it, and instantly smiled. Thomas was about to ask her why, but is interupted in bhis sitting up venture by a pillow hitting him in the face, Evidently the staff who packed the basket, had intended for them to be comfortable in their little outdoor _excursion._ When he pulls the pillow off of himself, Elizabeth sees that his features are slightly _less than pleased_. But she does nothing but smile sweetly back across at him.

“And here, there I was being _so courteous_ toward you…”

He chides, telling her off as he watched her unpack the hamper. She was knelt on her skirts, reaching in and bringig out several wrapped parcels. She raised an auburn brow, and Thomas saw why when she brought out a small bottle of red wine with a couple of glasses.

“Evidently, your staff intended us to _get merry_ …” Elizabeth told.

“Either that, or empathise with us having to put up with my mother. A _task always_ better entered and countered under the influence…” He added dryly.

“Well. They must mean for you to be under the influence, I’m not allowed wine because of little lemon here...” Elizabeth explains.

“Put it back in the hamper, my love..” He smiles.

Elizabeth blinked.

“You don’t want _any?”_ She asked.

“Not if you can’t.” He beams.

She looked absolutely dumbfounded at that. To know that whilst she could not enjoy herself and indulge in a glass of wine, that he wouldn’t either. Like a shared vow of abstinance. It was heartening to know that whilst she would be hormonal, emotional and completely changed about having his baby, that he would be in the same boat of experiencing things with and alongside her. Besides, what would be fair about her being denied one of lifes little privelages, If he then didn’t care one jot, and sat there downing glass after glass in front of her? No. They were having this baby, and whatever she suffered through – save for actually giving birth to their child himself – he’d suffer through it too. Most others she knew wouldn’t have been that considerate, _But not her Thomas_.

She leans over and crawls atop him, pressing a kiss to his lips as he sat up. His hands braced back behind him, his legs out straight in front of him - taking up most of the rug. He gave her a rascals grin as she pulled away.

“You’re a very charming, _considerate_ and _selfless_ man…” She beams at him.

He makes no answer, save for letting his smile grow to something dangerous, and completely unsafe, and before she can retreat, he _attacks._ His hands come up to enclose around her waist, clamping onto her, before he hauls them about, to throw her body back to the rug, spinningb them about so she came under him, rolling to one side as he pressed her there. Her red coiffed hair pressed under her head, her body collapsing back into the pillows, and before she can smile and laugh at his antics, his lips come down upon her own, as his big hands roam her body.Smoothing down her thighs, brushing the sensitive hot spots up near her neck, twirling tendrils of her coiled hair in his fingers. His hands sinking up into the updo of her hair to hold her head firmly in place, and proceeding to give her a kiss that weakens her. Nipping tenderly down her neck, making her body hum with pleasure, and her toes curl. His body urgently ruts into her, pressing down on her mouth watering curves. A growling moan from his lips, shuddered onto hers. Her lips prize themselves away from his long enough, and her hands go to his chest to try and force some distance, peeling herself away from being ravaged and kissed into submission.

It - _plainly_ \- doesn’t work, because if he couldn’t have her pretty lips, _then by god,_ he’d have the divine colomn of her neck that was just within his reach. His head nuzzled down into the crook of her soft, hot magnificently scented skin, nipping and plucking kisses at her throat. And through her speech, she groans, her eyes fluttering shut in her head as her hand claws into his shoulder.

“Thomas… We have a _hamper full_ of food we’re ignoring…” She points out.

“Aren’t you _hungry?_ ”

She asks him, shamefully she realises she is now tilting her head to the side to allow him greater access. Which he takes full advantage of. More so, especially when his fingers find the neck of her gown, and with a little pulling and wiggling in the right places, he manages to make it so her can now see most of her bare, ivory shoulder too.

“ _Famished._ ”

He growls, marching a regiment of kisses along her shoulder. Her hands both now go about his neck. Linking across him. It is that point at which his body is thoroughly traitorous and lets out a particlarly loud, whining rumble. He sighs in irritance, breaking his mouth away from her.

“Your body, _doesn’t lie._ Like your lovely lips do, Husband.” She smiles up at him.

He quirks a dark brow down at her, looking smug, before leaning himself up, their fronts still touching in all the right places, but one hand leaves from bracing himself up over her, and his hand, always so clever in it’s path to it’s destination, she feels on the soft heat of her thigh, having snuck under her dress, hitching it higher than he should have, resting folded across her knees, but when she feels his hot, smooth palm brush against the silk of her thigh, casuing a delightful sensation to ripple and jolt her, as he touched her leg in so intimate a manner. She gasps, and he looked remarkably pleased with himself.

“ _Neither_ does your’s. _Wife_.” He grins.

“Hamper…”

Elizabeth chides with a soft smile, hitching the pulled down shoukder of her gown back up as he watched her do it with a hot furious look in his eyes. One of displeasure at watching her cover up once more. She sits up as he pulls himself - _begrudgingly_ \- off her. Sitting back on his heels, he dives into the hamper, bringing out more of the wrapped food which Ethel kindly packed for them. They had been thoroughly spoiled – there were roast chicken sandwiches, thick slabs of bread, bursting with the meat, strawberry and custard tarts, some bitter chocolate torte that looked _outreagously_ good, aswell as some cold meat pies, buttered potates – still a little warmed, and a whole slab of a selection of cheeses, and some fruit for them to nibble at. Thomas it able to push the matter of having his wife to the back of his mind, atleast for a few seconds, anyway. Luckily, knowing Elizabeth was expecting, Ethel had provided them a bottle of soft fruit cordial, clearly she had intended the wine for Thomas. But, he waves goodby to caring about his masculinity and enjoys some of the crisp, sweet, fruity drink with his wife.

“I just realised something…”

He told her. As they supped back the drink from the glasses that had been carefully wrapped in a flanell to avoid it breaking. Whilst they feasted on the meat pies, and sandwiches.

“I never got to give you the traditional honeymoon…” He mumbles a little sadly.

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked with a smile, placing the food in her hands down into a napkin after taking a bite. Thinking back to what felt like centuries ago after they had gotten married, that wonderful day in London.

“I know our wedding night was, _technically_ , at the Dusty Goose. And the one after it was back home, in our own bed when we finally, blessedly consummated the union. But, I never got to do any of the tradionalities that come with honeymooning my new wife…” He supposes dejectedly

Elizabeth smiled at her husband.

“None of that matters to me, Thomas. I had you. I was your wife, then. That was plenty enough merriment for me. I don’t care about the age and it’s supposed _‘traditionalities’_.” She told him.

The gleam in his eyes told her he - heartily - disagreed.

“I should have spoiled you _rotten_. Wooed you and seduced you from the very _second_ we entered the bridal suite as man and wife…” He told her. “They should have been, rose petals strewn on the bed. Champagne for two, fresh strawberries, and every other good thing any good husband should have done for his wife…” He added.

“My love..” Elizabeth spoke, placing her food down and tipping his chin up to meet her eyes. He was led down, one elbow supporting himself as he kept himself up on it, picking idly at his food now, not meeting her eyes as he stewed and made himself all disappointed at something that passed them weeks ago. His eyes met hers, where she sat, her knees folded to one side, and she could see he was giving her that sad, kicked puppy expression.

“Duchesses orders. _I don’t care, Thomas_. To be _your wife_ made me the happiest soul alive. You know I don’t covet such meagre desires in order to make me contented. I had just wed the best man to walk the planet. Our wedding night could have been in a.. barn, and I still would have been ecstatic.” She told him. “Now, stop being so finicky, I wouldn’t be as _fastidious_ as you are for a _kindgom_..” She smiled across at him, seeing it made him burst out laughing.

He took the hand that was under his chin, and kissed it.

“Before that baby comes, I’m taking you away somewhere. Somewhere secluded and peaceful, like a little cottage on the coast, or a isolated house in the highlands. And you shall have that romantic, wooing, seducing Honeymoon that you deserve, come hell or high water. Just us two, for an entire fortnight if you like. No staff to worry about, no Captains or nieces to think of. _You. Me_. And _Little lemon here.”_ He pledges.

She grins at him. Of course, she was in no mind not to indulge him, or his wishes.

“Not next week I trust.” She smiles. “Chatsworth has to play host to some Farrows, a Carlton, and a Burchrowe…” She grins.

He shrugged, smiling and pretending to joke with her.

“We’ll leave a key under the doormat for them…” He grins.

“ _Wicked man…_ ” She laughs, looking appalled.

“Pin a note to the front door. _‘Gone Honeymooning – back sometime in a fortnight, if we feel like it. P.S. We’re also having baby, enjoy your stay, much love and signed TK and EK_ ’…” He beams.

She shook her head at him.

“What’s all the more appalling, is that you sound _half serious_ about that…” She speaks across to him. Reaching to pluck a black cherry from the basket Ethel had provided them.

“Plus, the cherry on the cake, it would _seriously aggravate_ my mother. Thinking of us stealing ourselves away to be amorous newlyweds for two weeks. I imagine _she’d explode_ from such a thought…” He grins lowly.

Elizabeth doesn’t know why, but the thought of greatly vexing Caroline Kenworthy – the poison mouthed woman that had slithered her way back into their lives – she doesn’t know why, but the knowledge of displeasing her suddenly becomes _very pleasing._ Which is very suprising, because Elizabeth Kenworthy had been reputed to be a saint, as good and kind as she was beautiful. And the thought of causing someone else upset, was _beyond abhorrent_ to her. So that spoke volumes about what kind of woman Caroline was. And how badly she was managing to effortlessly sail her way onto working Elizabeth’s _last nerve_.

She grins across at him. The low tone of his voice striking her body to flutter with tingles, and pleasant thrills to shoot up her spine.

“I know I shouldn’t take pleasure in that notion, but shamefully, _I do.”_ She smiles teasingly. Her eyes flaring with pleasure.

Thomas was finding her relentlessly alluring, both from the look in her eyes, and the way she was rebelling along with him.

“You know, I think she’d keel over on the spot if we lied and told her that the baby was concieved _out of wedlock_..” He beamed.

She gasped a smile at those words.

“Does she have an aversion to any particular religion?” Elizabeth asks.

Thomas’s eyes flared, and his smile grew wide _. She was seducing him, he was sure of it. She had to be, saying such things about giving his mother a heart attack…._

“What are you plotting now you beautiful thing?” He asks

“I’m just wondering if she would consider it _awful_ If I told her that my colouring was a gift from some long forgotten _Irish ancestor_ in my family?” She asked. “I want to know if she’d be moved into ill health or develop nausea at the merest intimation that her son had married a woman of _Catholic_ descent? And not one with a _title_ at that…” She enquires to him.

Thomas bit his lip as he smiled, and it was wide and thoroughly seductive. The tension they could feel growing between them. Hot and palphable in the air around them. His mother was as protestant as _Martin Luther himself. And his wife suddenly looked extra ravishing to his mind, he decided_.

“I’m trying to remember my sense of decorum and not take you _right here, right now_ , on _this rug…”_

He snarls lowly at her. His tone as low, and as rugged as a gravel pit. His eyes bore right into her. Hot and piercing her very _soul._ Elizabeth grinned wickedly, looking aup at him seductively through her lashes. Much feeling the same lust pool low in her gut, as the lust that was simmering away in his eyes and his smile.

“And did I forget to tell you, also, that my mother was born and raised in _France_ … My grandparents on her side were born and bred in Montpellier, spoke very little english. How would that do?” She beams.

_He was panting for her now. had never wanted her more._

He threw the glass in his hands over his shoulder, and _‘attacked’_ again.

Throwing himself on her, pressing her back onto the rug. Gently, so as not to hurt the baby. But there was nothing gentle about the way he was kissing her now. His lips were hot, defiling her own and ravaging her mouth as his hands felt for her hips, after which, one slid up to the back of her neck, and cupped her, pressing her all the more closely up into him, she groaned as he bit down ferally on her throat, gone was that soft teasing lust he taunted her with earlier, this was passion, need, and absolute frenzy and lust all rolled into one.

“Thomas… Someone _could see us_ …” She worried. Her blue eyes flitting around nervously

He bit down onto her throat, before his lips slid round and claimed her own in a hot kiss shutting her up, when he pulled away he growled his words at her.

“I couldn’t give less of a damn. I’m having you _here, so help me god…”_ He snarls.

He knew, If he didn’t take her now, he wasn’t all completely sure he’d _survive._ She smiled, moaning into his lips as they came to press hard and hot into her own once more, her hand moved to stroke down the back of his hair, and the other hooked to his shoulder, pressing them closer together. The fever for him running hot through her blood. She had never wanted a man so badly as how she wanted her husband. She was aching for him now. He could feel his arousal jut hot into her lower body, whilst she could feel her own wet and wanting, pooling between her thighs. All for him Only ever for him. He growls as they pulls apart from a scorching kiss. And she smiles up at him, seeing how feral and dominant he looked, staring her down in the deep, dark, hot way of his.

“You make me, _a very happy_ , man…” He snarls against her neck as he nibbles down onto her throat. Because she did. She was stunning, and all the better she was plotting ways to irritate his _god awful mother_. He, more than ever before, wanted to take _her,_ and take her _, now. He simply knew he had too._

“I could make you even _happier still…”_

She tells him. He chuckles as he bites down on her earlobe. Nuzzling into her, fogging her neck with his scorching breath. He loved the way a seductive little coil of hair was thrown forwards over her shoulder. Which he exposed now, ripping her dress down, pulling her whole shoulder and most of her upper arm out of it, swirling soft, gentle patterns onto her skin with his lips. Ravishing her sweet, scented skin. His hand was sneaking naughtily up her dress again, but not heading for _her thigh_ this time. He was heading for something _far better…_

“Not _as happy_ as I’m about to make you...”

He growls, loving how she writhed about under him as his hand brushed over the dellicate, velvet folds of her. Finding her already so amazingly, deliciously wet for him. She bucks up as his fingers find that sweet spot, circling it gently to make her clutch harder onto him, as he smirks down at her, delighted with how she reacts to his touch.

“So when we tell your mother you married a untitled, red haired, not of english descent, catholic girl, and concieved a baby with her, out of wedlock. Should we also mention that I am supporter of the Liberal party?” She wonders against his mouth.

He glares a look of lust at her, but she is unable to savour it for long, before she moans, bucking up into his body, her face creasing into an expression of pure pleasure. All because she felt his fingers dip into the very heart of her, toying with her and making her loose all breath and thought.

“I’m going to _have_ you _so hard_ for that.”

He promises, withdrawing his hand from under her skirts, kissing her as he works on replacing his fingers with something else, to better fulfill his promise. He growls onto her neck as he releases himself from his clothing, sinking down to her in one swift plunge. She groans into his neck, her face a pure vision of ecstasy, her hand fisting into his long hair, as he begins to move against her body, lunging in and out of her with powerful thrusts that spark through both their bloodstreams.

“God, you always _feel so good._ Elizabeth, _Oh,_ my god, _so good…”_

He groans into her ear, folding her leg to curl up over his hips, so he could better press into her, and love her deeper. His lips trying to meet hers in a kiss, but his own gasps relieve him of such a venture. He shudders as she clamps down on him, but that only serves to fuel him on all the more, he grinds hmself against in powerful, slow, and hard circles. Making her cry, loudly, and clasp onto his clothes all the tighter. His hands roam all over her body, just like his lips were doing, kissing her bare shoulder, nipping at her neck, his hand gripping her thigh as the other kept himself held up so he didn’t crush her. He’d never get enough of hwo she moaned and felt under him, so sweet and _wet, so soft,_ and warm. He’d never get enough of making love to her, like this. He didn’t even care they were doing it in a _damn field. Out of doors,_ for heavens sake. But then she moaned his name, and he knows that as he smiles and nips his teeth to scrape over her throat, that he can’t give a flying toss about such things… He just continued driving her out

They both felt themselves spiral closer and closer to that sweet pang of pleasure that would always consume them so wholly when it rolled through them. Plus there is the fact that though when they usually made love, it was gentle and slow. This time, it was not. It was urgent, grabbing at fistfuls of clothing and hot skin, trying to reveal more, trying to tear each others clothes off, or down. Primally surging and groaning as they rocked and their bodies rode together, writhing and slapping into one another. Her nails scracthed down his back at his clothes, and his, he was sure, was leaving fingertip shaped bruises on her perfectly rounded thigh as he snapped his hips to moved faster, his breath, and her own, coming in heaving, rapid pants as they burned in passion together. She was growing closer he could tell, more so, when his hand found her chest through her clothes, palming her breatst through her thin cloth gown, feeling her gasp louder as he did, smiling a wicked leer into her lips. Making love to her like some feral animal, yet is was so good, he could fele himself starting to unravel too.

They shatter into their climaxes toegther, which swooped down and claimed them out of mowhere, like an explosion that soared through both their bodies, they lost all good concept of the world around them, the wind in the trees, the birds chirping, the sounds of the river nearby. It all faded away, they could only listen to each others moans, calling each others names and pleas to god as they both came to their release. They both shuddered down, floating back down from heaven. Thomas slumps down over his beautiful wife, feeling her twitch and shudder against him, her head thrown back as she moaned his name to the heavens, along with gods as she panted and tried to regain her senses. As did he. His legs felt like useless things on his lower body, and he collapses back by her side, staring up at the underside of the trees branches after adjusting himself back to rights inside his clothing. He noticed with hungered glee, her dress was still folded demurely up over her knees, so he could see her pale, shaped calves in a shaft of sunlight.

“Yes. Your mother wouldn’t have approved _of that, either_ …” She gasps after a long silent minute. Taking in the sounds of nature and the world going by about them.

“I _bloody hope_ so.”

Thomas grins. Staring up at the tree they were led under, flashing her a snippet of his perfectly lovely white smile, before he leaned over her, curling his body into hers, resting on one elbow as his fingers softly stroked down her right shoulder, which he had torn out of her dress, steepling his fingers to tantalise her skin, swirling invisible little patterns down onto her warmed skin, watching her breathe and her smile as she gently rested her eyes shut, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on her skin. He leans down, sighing happily, placing a long, sweet kiss onto the top of her shoulder. She turns to look at him , twisting her head sideways, to see he smiled handsomely at her. And she always adored remembering what an intoxicating creature he was from up close, and she quite adored the way his blue eyes swept over her beautiful face as if it were the first time he were drinking the sight of her in.

He leans across her then, and plucks a wild flower from the wild grasses next to them, which were perfectly high, up all around them, so he knows in safe assurance, they weren’t at risk of being caught through their ardour… He then plucks away the useless long stem, examining the beautiful wild daisy in his hand, before he sweeps it to rest behind her ear, tucking back a coil of her red hair, disturbed out of it’s chignon by their activities, smiling as he placed the flower in her tresses. Making her look like some stunning, playful, flame haired, nature nymph from greek mythology.

“It’s no thornless white rose, but it’ll do…” He grins. “You look like the goddess of nature…” He remarked, brushing his fingers across the silk of her cheek.

She smiles, remembering the bunch he had sent her when he first declared his wish to court her. All that time ago. Yet to her, it fel tlike just yesterday.

“Wild daisies _were_ my favourite flower as a child..” She tells.

“How uncannily appropriate…” He observes in a wide smile.

“So. Tell me, are you enjoying this little outing of ours so far?” He asks her as they lay, contented in the afterglow together.

“Immensely...”

She smiles. Because going back to that house now, she knows, would not feel so nice. The presence of one woman turned the house from feeling like a priveleged castle, into a veritable prison. It may have been huge, but Caroline being there made it feel _tiny._

“So…” Thomas smiles.

“When shall we deliver the bad news to my Mother?” He winks.

Elizabeth chuckles.

“Let’s wait and reserve it for when she is next plaguing upon the family like a pox. I can imagine it will halt her dead in her tracks..” She smiles “Or better yet, find more things of which to vex her with…”

“That’s _my girl…”_ He smiles, leaning in for a sweet kiss.

 

~

 

 

Thomas and Elizabeth lay happily contented on their amourous little picnic for a couple more hours after their little seductive misadventure. Soaking up the pleasant atmosphere, and the warming sunshine. Before long, they bite the bullet and decide they both ned to return to the house. Though it would be a saving grace for them to remain away from Thomas’s fork tongued mother, they both know unless they very well plan on camping, they can’t remain out of doors, escaping her company _forever…_

They are just coming back to the house from the orchard, having taken the long way back, when they both see an elegant black carriage crunch it’s way up the gravel drive. They watch it as they stroll along, arm in arm, Thomas carrying the hamper, which was a lot lighter now due to their consumption of the food within, and Elizabeth still wore the daisy that he had placed in her red hair. They watch curiously as a tall, dark haired, red coated gentleman exits, holding a large bunch of bright yellow sunflowers. Heading for the door, his coal black boot shining in the sun, as he crunched across the gravel. After a moment of knocking upon the door, Thomas and Elizabeth see it is pulled open by none other than Wilkin’s, who takes the calling card which the gentleman hands him, and after Wilkin’s gazes upon it. He opens the door and allows the flower laden man inside. After it is shut, Thomas and Elizabeth look at each other.

“Who was that man do you suppose?” Elizabeth asks him. He grew up here, after all, he was more likely to know whom he was.

“He looked familiar, to me… _but… I’m sure it was..hm….”_

He floundered, Elizabeth could almost hear him thinking, looking up at him, she could see his brow pull down over his eyes, weighting down with concern and wonder.

“I looked like, Sir Rupert Farrell.” He spoke with a intrigued frown. “He’s been here for years. He has recently come into money after the death of his Father, I read about it in the paper. His Late father was the Earl of Audley. A title now passed onto him…” Thomas explained.

“No second guesses as to whom he came to call on…” Elizabeth spoke lowly. He was far too old for Edith, and far too _young_ , for Caroline. That left one woman unaccounted for.

_Iris._

“He was very close friends with John. They were in the same regiment together In the Crimea…” Thomas told her slowly.

“It is a bit odd, don’t you think, to have known the family for years… to suddenly come calling, now, and baring _flowers too…_ ” She explained.

 _“_ You are right. It is most _odd_ indeed…” Thomas spoke back, looking down to his wife.

“Or perfectly _obvious_ as to why he feels obligated to call now, after all this time… The answer is staring us in the face….” Thomas began. Elizabeth met his eyes and a grave look of concern crossed both their features.

Though they didn’t want to think it, they both knew I was as plain as day. Plain as the nose on their faces. Thomas then added;

“And that answer comes in the form of a _scheming old Countess_ with a chip on her shoulder…”

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Fact: Any time Benedict really wants to wind Thomas up, he jokes about courting His sister, Iris. But at one point in time, as a matter of fact, Benedict did once consider asking Thomas if he could court Iris – before she met and married John. And when Iris and Thomas went down to London for a season, He did court her, but they agreed they were not going to find romance with one another, they were better as companions. They remain good friends now, even though, at one time they did harbour feelings for one another. Thomas was always very protective over Iris, even more so with his friends reputation the way it was. Thomas never quite know how to feel at the possibility of having Benedict as a brother-in-law. It made him a mix of both terrified and protective, actually.


	77. Allies, Bad Novel's, and London Arrivals...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More is, of course, being typed as you read this...

 

 

 

~ Ophelia, the wonderful old biddy that she is ~

 

~ Ophelia's Inner Sanctum ~

~ Elizabeth's Gown ~

 ~ Thomas's Divine Waistcoat (Why don't men still dress like this??!?!) ~

 

“Eh?” Ophelia barked.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Readjusting herself, sitting up a little straighter, clearing her throat, holding the book up, bracing her arms higher, not entirely sure of _how_ this would help her speech become any the more lucid. But nevertheless, their novel was reaching a pivotal point to the plot-line, and Ophelia had now taken the time to decide that her ears had become vestigial and decorative, _rather than functional_ , organs. One of her favourite little, ribbing tricks. Of which she oft employed when Elizabeth came to read to her.

Usually, she only read to her husbands Great Aunt of a Monday afternoon. But in order to escape the sharp, cruel talons of the clutches of her awful Mother-In-Law, today, she had decided to hide away and find refuge with the senile likes of the elderly woman as she kept to her private salon. In amongst the garishly coloured velvet furniture, and the various dead stuffed animals which decorated the walls.

In here, keeping Ophelia company, she was secure in the knowledge she was safely tucked away from being come across from the old dragon that was her new visiting relative. And she wasn’t the only one. Everyone in Chatsworth took great measures to avoid her. Thomas kept to his study, Edith to her library, Judith spent an awful lot more time with Nanny Lyons, and Iris had never spent _so many hours_ out calling on her friends in and around Castleton, and visiting a certain gentleman at the parish.

Plus, the other day, after Sir Rupert Farrell had come to call bringing her sunflowers as a gift, after such a kind gesture, and at Caroline’s firm insistance, and as Iris was _much too good_ to ever _refuse_ a caller, she had taken tea with him at the tearoom in town. This raised Elizabeth’s distrusts. For suddenly, a gentleman caller of high wealth, and certain repute sprang out of nowhere to declare his growing affections for Iris. She was far too much of a rational woman to believe Caroline’s appearance, and then Sir Ruperts apparition into their lives could be labelled as entirely separate coincidences. Something in her prickled hot, uncomfortable and a little repulsed about the situation. If Caroline Kenworthy could not do her very best to change her son’s life to her perfect ideals, then by her own, bossy, falsely believed, ‘god given’ right, she would change her level best her daughters.

“ _Hmm-kmmm_. As I was saying, _‘Miss Walstrand, not ever known as being a woman of feeble action, picked up the closest thing to hand, which happened to be the sythe, for it was her only weapon with which to fend off the rabid weasel coming with ferocious speed at her feet…”_

“A Rabid _Weasel?_ ” Came Ophelias staccato bark.

“Oh, _good heavens_ …”

She sighed, slumping down deeper into the mustard yellow velvet chaise.

“So, you heard _that_ alright then?…”

Elizabeth commented drily. Lifting an auburn brow in mistrustful apprehension at the elder woman.

“My ears are of a _very fine_ and acute vintage, as well you should know, Lady K.”

Ophelia explained, laying a hand on her chest ingenuously batting her not at all innocent lashes at the red haired Duchess. Feigning the perfect picture of guiltlessness at her. But Elizabeth knew her far too well to be led on a merry chase by her teasing nature.

“Oh really?” The Duchess smiled drily.

“How could you be so accusing and exhibit such a _horrendous_ manner towards a poor, infirm old lady…”

Ophelia ribbed. Mirth and amusement dancing in her small, dark little eyes.

“If you, are poor, and infirm Ophelia, then I, am at _death’s door…”_ Elizabeth smiled wryly.

“Oh, don’t be so _dramatic…_ ”

Ophelia grinned, waving the woman off with a regal sniff.

“It’s much too _distasteful_ for a Duchess.” She added.

“Would you like me to carry on?” Elizabeth asked at a perfectly reasonable volume.

“Pardon? What did you say?”

Ophelia winced, cupping a hand over her ear. Pretending to be struck with another bout of hard of hearing affliction.

Elizabeth snapped the book shut. Thumping it to her lap, marking their place with her index finger. Her head tilting in a chiding manner at her relative. Her shoulders slumped, and were she not so entertained by this old woman, and wishing to evade her mother-in-law, she would have given up this little charade long ago. And gone off to find something else of which to occupy herself with. Before she beat herself to death with the stuffed hare mounted on the wall behind her.

“ _Alright_ , now that first enquiry may have been sincere, but that is about as transparent as a plate _glass window_ , Ophelia. You heard me _perfectly well, and even you know it.”_ Elizabeth told her off.

“You need to rehearse your reading manner, Lady K.” Ophelia warned. Though her eyes looked far too merry, sparkling in jovial joy.

“…and you, your much beloved penchant for torturing poor souls…” Elizabeth beamed wryly.

Ophelia let out her famous short, sharp bout of staccato laughter. Throwing her head back as she chuckled. When she finished she wagged a bony finger at the flame haired gel.

“I will forever thank my Great Nephew for plucking you from London as his bride…” She chuckled heartily.

“Whilst I digest that rare and somewhat frank compliment, Shall we get back to the novel now?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, _good lord, No._ Mrs Radcliffe is getting far too madcap with her plots as of late. If I say so myself. _Far too_ off the wall, even for someone as nutty as me…” She spoke with abhorrence.

Elizabeth smiled in polite agreement. Turning the small novel over to see the cover. Which read _‘Miss Walstrand and the Vicious Viscount’_ for they had finished ‘ _Miss Hedgecock and the Evil Earl,’_ and moved on in the series, and though she had to admit some of the storyline was questionable as to whether or not the author possessed all her faculties and wits about her, there were hot air balloon chases, people being pecked to death by chickens, death by drowning – in a vat of glue, and outrunning a stampeding herd of pigs, and now, one more to add to the insane mix, fending off a rabid weasel with a sythe. Though Elizabeth did find faults with the mad ways of the stories, she was rather hoping to atleast make it to the next, and last novel in the sequence, which was titled _‘Miss Palethorpe and the Malicious Marquess.’_

“Yes, all titled people in Mrs Radcliffes world, seem to be evil demons of men, obssesed with the inane desires of ridding the world of certain young heroines.” Elizabeth confessed.

“I think Fidget could write a better novel than her….” Ophelia confessed.

Elizabeth smiled, seeing said creature across the room, on his perch in his golden cage, grooming his bright feathers.

“His diction is certainly more improved than hers...”

“Indeed…” Ophelia chuckled, amused.

“Hers is an _assault_ on all fiction in creation.” She added.

“I can imagine the title, _‘Miss Kenworthy and the Devious Dragon’_.” Elizabeth smiled.

Ophelia smiled, widely, before she gave her relative a shrewd look. Knowing whom in this house could be called an old Dragon.

“Caroline still giving you a bloody hard _time_ of it, then?”

She asked with interest of getting her claws into some gossip about the house. As she mostly kept to herself, she rarely got the cut direct of the houseold natterings.

“This house has over 247 rooms, Ophelia, but with her here, it feels like are no less than _3_. She is making it impossibly hard to exist in an average manner. As it is, I spend my days now, scurrying off in the opposite direction of _wherever_ it is she is heading.”

Elizabeth explained, stroking a hand over her baby as she sat, setting the book down on the side as she spoke.

“I _never liked_ that woman. She has far too higher regard of herself. Lording about her title like she’s the Queen of Sheba. Her royal nose so high in the air. As it was, she came from a penniless family. Barely above _destitution_ , you know. Only when she found _poor Theodore_ had this place as a home, a peerage, and a vast fortune did she cling on like a leech and _drain_ him _dry_ …”

Ophelia told Elizabeth.

The Duchess swore she felt her heart stop.

“I thought she was the daughter of a wealthy Earl?”

Elizabeth asked quickly, shocked. Her voice going low as if she was afraid of being overheard.

“Oh, _pish_!” Ophelia barked.

“Her Father and Mother barely _had enough_ to _get on by_. _No_ servants. _No_ fine gowns. _Nothing._ Their riches and good high name were a masquerade for a penniless family with little prospect and next to no promise: by the oncoming years before she married Theodore, they were _so poor_ they couldn’t even afford _to eat meat_ , for heavens sake, and they were chopping up their own furniture to burn just to _keep warm_ in the winter. Her Father lost his money on the market and in bad investments, never made it back. He had the Bailiff riding hot on his coatails, their only hope was a good marriage. They may have been _titled_ my dear, but there was _nothing noble_ about where she came from… Caroline Kenworthy may be a Dowager Countess now, but she grew up as-plain-as-brown-bread, Caroline Palmer, the impoverished daughter from a despondent ancestral seat.” Ophelia told.

Elizabeth was gobsmacked.

“You knew her before she married Thomas’s Father? Does he have any idea about this?” Elizabeth asked.

“Of course I knew of her. I _always_ will and _always have_ had this family’s best interests at heart, you know. I have eyes and ears all over this country. Enough to be certain that you and my Nephew veas hired a private investigator to look into why she returned, The Redsmith fellow. He’s very discreet, credible and thorough enough to do a proper job of it. A _wise move_ I must say. I don’t trust her _one jot_ either. Caroline always was one of a materialistic nature, if she is not back for money, then she is here for some other reason. Of which I’m certain the origin of such is shady and mistrustful. Don’t you worry. I am your ally in hating that penniless, scheming, _condescending old hag_.” Ophelia winked.

Elizabeth had never wanted to _hug_ a person more in her entire life.

But, if she wasn’t so sure that Ophelia would call her a hopeless dandy, she would have thrown her arms about her neck and _squeezed the life_ and love out of her frail bones in thankfulness. _Pregnancy hormones and all that,_ she bit back the sentimental tears, and sufficed by squeezing the woman’s hand tight instead…

“You know. I think, that under all that wit and pretention, Ophelia. That there is a soft, _mushy_ centre. And actions born out of nothing but _love and protection_ for your family..” Elizabeth spoke, smiling gratefully at the woman.

 _“Thankyou_..”

The Duchess added. Her tone too sincere to ever be doubted, or contested against.

“You tell anyone, and I’ll make you wish you were _six feet under…_ ” Ophelia smiled, patting the back of her hand.

“…And I’ve _no doubt_ of it…” Elizabeth smiled.

“Now, shall we suspend our disbelief and our IQ’s and try and make it to the end of this appalingly addictive trash the author so laughingly calls a novel?” She asked.

“With, a due sense of exhaustion and dread, _yes._ Why not?”

Elizabeth smiled, reaching back for it, and splitting the pages open to try and find the chapter they had gotten to.

“Who knows, maybe thing will perk up a bit for Miss Walstrand after she kills that rabid Walrus…”

“ _Walrus?”_ Elizabeth asked confusedly as she flipped through the pages.

“Yes, _Walrus.”_ Ophelia pressed.

“There wasn’t _any mention_ of a walrus in this story…” Elizabeth offered.

“I sware on Her Majestys royal bloomers that you said ‘Walrus’ not five minutes ago…” Ophelia persisted.

“Weasel.” Elizabeth spoke brightly.

“I said, _Weasel_.” She promised.

“ _Heavens_ , I fear if she tried to defend herself against an attack from an advancing, flippered marine animal weighing over 5,000 pounds, with nothing but a _sythe_ I think Miss Walstrand would come to a very _awful end…”_ Elizabeth explained seriously.

When she finished speaking, she turned to look at Ophelia, whose face was pinched as she tried to contain her laughter. But then, they both couldn’t help it, they both saw the hilarity of Elizabeth’s confession. They burst into healthy bouts of rib wracking, hearty laughter.

Many minutes later, Ophelia managed to stop enough to wipe away a tear of mirth from tracking down her wrinkled cheek.

“You see, knock those novels all we like, Lady K, even _arguing_ about them is entertaining…” She told wisely, again, with a bony wag of her bony finger.

Elizabeth sat up straight, wiggling further back into the sofa, and trying to resume her recitations. Not wanting to admit she was right. Heavens, she’d never hear the end of it. If there was anything she had learned during her time reciting to Ophelia, it was; Rule No.1. Never show any semblence of weaknesss, and Rule No.2. If In any doubt, refer immediately back to No.1 for safekeeping.

“Now. Shall we behave ourselves and see if Miss Walstrand finds herself on the end of another rather sticky wicket?” Elizabeth asks

“Do we dare?” Ophelia asks.

“You may all you like. I’m damn sure before long, this book is going to give me an _aneurysm_ …” Elizabeth sighed under her breath.

Ophelia snorted in amusement.

“At my age, it would not do to outshine the youth, and see you work yourself up into such a _silly snit_ and worst still, all because of a futile little _novel_..”

Ophelia remarked crudely, with a huge, proud smile on her face. And Elizabeth was damn sure, even though Ophelia often spoke gravely of how she could not be seen to waste her short, last few days at the end of her long life, on things that she had no patience for. She would heartily empathise with the woman on her agony, if she wasn’t so sure that Ophelia would live for another hundred years, she was sure of it. _Death wouldn’t dare claim her. He’d have his hands too full…_

 _“Only you_ could make a brain hemhorrage sound like an irking little inconsequential _tantrum…”_

“…And You, Mrs K, sound so surprised at my _blithe_ nature. I cannot waste a _single spec_ of my time bowing to stupid things… As it is, I barely have enough life force left in me to steel myself and claim the false measures with which to tolerate Caroline at Dinner time in seven hours time…” She grumped, shuddering at the horrific notion.

Elizabeth grinned.

“Are you quite set in your glorious old ways?” Elizabeth asked.

“Of course I am. And will be until the day I’m n a wooden box.” Ophelia grinned.

“Marvellous.” Elizabeth smiled, turning back to their novel.

“Novel?” Elizabeth asked. Again. At this rate it would take them until next christmas to get to the bottom of the page.

“Have we not started?” Ophelia asked.

“And.. I’ll take _that_ as an affirmative answer…” Elizabeth smiled, flipping the pages. Finding where they had gotten.

“ _Her fingers stole around the instrument, and she swung it wildly, missing the little fetid creature as it snarled, and nibbled madly at her hem, tugging on her muddy skirts..”_

Elizabeth read. Before her eyes flickered across to Ophelia, whom rolled her eyes. But she soldiered on nonetheless. Eye movements not taken into consideration of whether or not she should stop.

“ _With an almighty swing, she triumphed in hitting the bellicose creature right on the chin…”_ She read.

“Do weasels have _chins?”_ Ophelia asked.

“They do in _this_ novel…” Elizabeth pressed.

“Fancy that…” The elder woman remarked.

“ _She began to run, scrambling down the hillside, dropping the sythe…”_ Elizabeth continued.

“Silly girl…” Ophelia weighed in, yet again.

“Dropping her _only weapon_ to defend herself against creatures that would dare to nibble so dangerously at her hem.” Elizabeth mumbled. “It’s a wonder Miss Walstrand has lasted this long if you ask me…” The Duchess added exhaustively.

 _“She moved quickly through the field, knowing the angered little thing would be hot on her heels as she ran through the long grass that whipped at her legs in the doomed wind…”_ She read. Elizabeth went to take a breath, before Ophelia stopped her.

“It’s grown rather tedious to me now that the Walrus is out of the picture…” Ophelia remarked drily.

“Weasel..” Elizabeth reminded her. again.

 _“Oh, Pish!”_ Ophelia barked.

Elizabeth smiled.

Opportunely, at that precise moment, a knock comes to the door of Ophelias private salon. Ophelia trned to Elizabeth.

“Who could that be at _this hour?”_ She asked.

Elizabeth glanced to the clock, which read ten to one.

“It’s just about twelve, Ophelia.” She remarked.

“Who would dare disturb our reading time?” She grumped moodily.

“Enter, whomever you are…” Ophelia

 _“At your own peril…”_ Elizabeth felt inclined to add to the elder woman’s command.

The door was pushed open by a very aggravated looking Thomas.

“You know, Aunt, one of these days, I will perish of old age, stood waiting to be invited into your private quarters…” He grumped.

Elizabeth smiled at her husband. They were sat across the large, bizarrely decorated room, adjacent to where he slipped in through the gap in the gilded door.

“And _so should you_. No one comes _unannounced_ into my inner sanctum…” Ophelia told him stiffly.

“ _Perish the thought, Aunt…”_ Thomas commented drily.

“I came to fetch my wife. May I deprive her of your completely _absurd_ company now, for the rest of the afternoon?” Thomas smiled genially, bowing to the ladies.

“If the Lady K insists. We were just getting past a salacious part in a novel…” Ophelia grinned.

“I shan’t dare ask _what abominations_ of Literature of those Mrs Radcliffe novels you are prevailing yourselves upon now…” He mumbled.

Elizabeth laughed, putting the book down, and struggling to her feet, pushing herself up with one hand, the other pressed the the barely visible swell of her belly.

“Pray, Husband, why do you wish to steal me away?” She asks with a smile, padding across the room, coming to stand opposite her love.

“Perhaps my sweet wife has forgotten the _time?_ ” He asks her. “And the _date?”_ He adds. Beaming at her.

Elizabeth’s face split into a wide grin. _How could she have forgotten? Chatsworth would soon play host to Farrows a plenty. And a messrs Carlton. And A Miss Burchrowe._

“Ashby rode back not five minutes ago. Their carriage is but ten minutes away…” Thomas smiled.

She smiled warmly.

“Should you come and wish to meet our guests, Ophelia? My mother, father and sister?” Elizabeth asked.

Ophelia glared lightheartedly at her.

“Your sister is cursed with being a silly sort? Is She not?” The woman asks.

“From top to bottom.” Elizabeth smiled.

Ophelia grunted.

“I shall save such _idle pleasures_ for myself, until Dinner, later.” She waved them off.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Fun Fact: Every year, In order to reward the hard working staff at Chatsworth Manor, The family put on, and cast and star in a play to be performed to all the servants, and some of the tenants. Plays in the previous years have included The Happy Prince, By Oscar Wilde, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, and Sense and Sensibility. Of course, Judith longed for their family to get a little bigger so they’d have more interesting parts cast by humans. As it was, last year Thomas played second tree on the left, Iris was cast as a pigeon. And they had to improvise and use a rocking horse on wheels as a noble steed, and Edith was forced to don a fake beard, and the part of the King was given to a chair with a coat thrown over it, as they had to improvise due to a shortage of human characters to act out parts. Needless to say, that as Judith got older, and was allowed to cast, direct and instruct her Mother to help her write a play of her own, it was the longest hour of the staff’s life.


	78. Grand Arrivals, Grand Houses, and Grand Announcements...

 

 

 

 

 

Thomas shut the door to Ophelia's, _inner sanctum_ , behind his wife as she joined him out in the hall. She stepped to his side, pulling her blue shawl tighter about her blue and gold dress, after all, the sleeves were only a sheer, soft material, which weren’t considerate on the basis of warmth it would provide her. Her hair was artfully arranged into pins, one coppery coil of such leading down the back her neck. Small little pearl droplet earrings jittered when she moved, hanging down from her earlobes.

Elizabeth noticed that he wasn’t smiling as much as he usually would when he located her. And his stance was a little stiff and unrelaxed.

She knew almost instantly something was wrong, and as he then procured something from his waistcoat pocket. His grave expression non-faltering, Elizabeth knew instantly something was not right concerning her husband. He kept eye contact with her as his hands searched for the letter.

“I just had _this_ from Redsmith. Under other circumstances, I would have atleast waited and shared it with you until _after_ we welcomed your family. I know you’ve been looking forward to it, and the _last thing_ I desire to do, is sully your mood. But as it is, I’m afraid _I cannot_ postpone nor prolong showing you the details of what he uncovered about my Mother…” He spoke lowly, unfolding the letter. “I can’t hide such information as this…” He added.

Elizabeth swallowed, feeling a little wave of nausea flare up from her belly.

“How bad is it?” She asked, wincing, as her eyes swept over the paper. Trying to decipher the handwriting.

It was grave, _grave indeed_. And he had been right to show her.

The letter spoke of unpaid debts, unmet rents going back months, lavish expenses totted up with no forwarding cheque to clear the enormous account. And the one that made her gut drop to the floor and back up again. She steadied a hand over her baby bump, gasping as she read that one little, rotten, black word.

_Fraud._

She looked up and met her husbands stony eyes as he too told her inaudibly that his expression had been much the same when he found out. Her mouth gaped and her eyes were infinitely curious and shocked. She didn’t like to think any one relative of hers could be capable of such a horrible thing.

“Redsmith told me, she was involved with an incredibly wealthy Italian businessman. He owned half of Milan, apparently. According to what he found the relationship turned sour, as he was caught by my mother, warming his bed with another woman, so to get her revenge, she then went on, to pose as a reputable business woman involved in all of his companies. She helped herself to his chequebook, and emptied all the money out _of all_ his bank accounts, nearly left him flat broke. Then hightailed herself off to Greece to escape the authorities. She stayed there a while until the nest egg of money she had stolen ran out, at which point she must've calculated she could navigate a route home, stopping in France and London along the way. Scrounging for more money off her rich friends as she went.” Thomas explained.

“She’s wanted by the police?” Elizabeth asked. “ _Oh, Thomas_ , what on earth do _we do?”_

She asked in a saddened tone. Rubbing over her belly. Starting to breathe a little heavier.

He curled her into his arms, taking her body and pulling her close into a comforting hug. His hand cupping to the back of her neck, trying his best to soothe her worries. He didn’t want her to be upset and to cause herself distress at the awful news.

“It’s _alright_.”

He nodded, his face softening to that loving expression she adored. He cradled her close, pressing a kiss to her red hairline. Smelling the inviting scent of her as he did.

“Now. Duke’s orders. We’ll put this matter _aside_ while I try and figure out how on earth I’m supposed to handle this. Okay? Redsmith said he wasn’t completely finished unearthing _all_ the details yet…”

He informed her. Him and his wife had no secrets from each other.

Elizabeth chuckled dryly.

“That wasn’t _all_ of the details?” She asked incredulously.

“I’m not sure I care to _hear the rest_ …” She adds. Feeling his hand stroke low over the bump.

His eyes met hers, and he looked, slightly guilty and saddened to her eyes.

“Was I right to tell you, _now?”_ He asked carefully.

Elizabeth cupped his face in her hands. Stroking her thumbs over his neck.

“Yes, my darling, _of course_ you were…”

She finishes. Letting him know she would never want to be excluded from the decisions they made as a couple.

“I agree on what you said. Until Redsmith unearths everything else, we just have to…… just try and _think of a way_ to handle the situation.” Elizabeth offered.

“Know this, if they come here for her, I will _not harbour_ her. I will pay off her debts if I _absolutely must._ But if the law wish to become involved, I haven’t got the power to evade not prohibit them. Maybe that will teach her a lesson of who she screws over in the future…If they come for her, know then that it’s _out_ of my hands.” Thomas muttered resolutely.

Elizabeth nodded, though she thought the notion a little cold of him. She knew, ultimately, that he was right.

“Now, come on.”

She speaks in a hushed tone, wearing a small smile

“I believe we had better make haste to the front drive. Visit those newcomers…” She smiles.

He kisses her head, beaming back at her, pocketing the letter back safely in his waistcoat. Readjusting his appearance.

Today he was dressed in his usual black boots trimmed to the top with brown leather, and breeches. White shirt, with a short, divinely coloured red paisley waistcoat with a black cravat and white tie pin. His silver, engraved watch chain linked across his front. As they walked along, side by side, he made sure that his sleeves were rolled down and secured at his wrists with cufflinks. Engraved with his initials. He looked every inch, the finely suited, wealthy Duke. His hair swept back in its staple, divine style on his head. Lustrous and thick, shining like jet black obsidian silk when the beam of sunlight struck him from the window. She smiled at the sight of him. Still so virile and handsome to her eyes, as much as he was the first time she laid eyes on him. And she was still heart flutteringly, breath takingly, _stupidly and crazily_ in love with him, like she had been at first sight too. The giddy notion that would forever make her feel like a silly girl, rather than a grown woman, and soon to be mother that she was.

“I’ve asked for Ethel to lay out a varied afternoon lunch in the blue parlour, for when they arrive.” Thomas informed her.

“I imagine they’ll be famished. Felicity will have the appetite of a horse. Carriage rides always make her hungry. And Mrs Sharpe will be gasping for a hot beverage, or a tonic. Such close confines to my younger sister will be _too trying_ on her, I wager…” She smiled.

“…. I even took the liberty of asking Wilkin's to leave a small bottle of laudanum out for your father. I imagine a coach ride of _some or indeed, any duration_ with Pest and Mrs Sharpe as his companions will prove somewhat a challenge…” He grinned.

Elizabeth gasped, though to his credit, she was grinning too.

“You are _despicable_ , your Lordship.” She beams.

“I can think he will draw great comfort from the fact that there are 247 rooms. Ample space to escape such lively and....wholesome conversation that there is plenty of to be had from those two…”

Thomas winked as they came to the grandeur of the foyer, crossing the diamond black and white tiles across to the door.

“Though, I wouldn’t put it past my father and Violet to plot in slipping sedatives into their tea that morning, in order to gain themselves some _peace on the journey…_ ” She beamed.

“Well. They _are only_ human..” Thomas grins.

Elizabeth chuckles.

“And may I point out, that indeed, _I_ may be _despicable,_ your Ladyship, but you are of the same _cunning breed_ as I…”

He winks, pulling her close, one hand folded behind his back, as the other reached for her hand, and he bowed and leaned forward, to kiss it with an eager wink which made her tummy flutter, and her face break into a wider smile.

They strode out of the double front doors, Thomas tugging open the huge slab of pine wood to allow his Duchess to pass through. Naughtily patting her bottom after she went, and out they both walked onto the gravel drive, where the sun hung hot and bright in the cloudy sky, and the air about them sung with the perfumed roses which lined the gardens nearby. If they weren’t very much mistaken, the distant sound of horses hooves hitting the long gravel drive was an indication that their guests were not too far away.

“Did you tell your parent’s about the size of Chatsworth? So as to prepare them?”

He asked her as they stood side by side, awaiting the carriage to get closer to it’s destination.

“A _few_ details here and there…”

She informed him. before turning her head to watch down the drive.

He knew his wife well enough to know that glint in her eyes, and what the cause of it was.

“You’ve waited to surprise them with it, haven’t you? Just like I did to you…”

He asked her. Playfully narrowing his eyes as his hands went behind his back.

“I think it could become a fun sort of tradition…” She beamed

He chuckled at her antics.

“Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, the _Cunning Duchess_ of Chatsworth.” He smiled aloud.

She smiled and caught his eyeline as she bit her lip, before her attention turned back to the drive, where just beyond the round pond far down the drive, before it lurched in a slow circle, rounding it, and coming into view of them, and the house. By the looks of things, it couldn’t move very fast for the _numerous_ trunks and luggage that was piled atop it. Elizabeth knew Mrs Sharpe's touch when she saw it. She could imagine her squawking and fretting that she need take gowns and garments, gloves, coats, and bonnets with which to suit _every_ occasion fathomable. She recognised - her old - familiar family crest on the front, also on the doors of the small, elegant black carriage. Smiling madly when she thought that in a short few moments, she would be seeing her, _barmy_ , loved ones again. And also, after that, after everyone was settled and well in the parlour, then they would be telling them of the recent, _wonderful_ , development in hers and Thomas’s lives.

They were in for a surprise, it seems, as another black carriage followed the first one. Thomas smiled in pleasant surprise. It seems one Messrs Carlton had managed to make it with the rest of the intended party after all. The crest on the second carriage was the Carlton Family crest, he could clearly see.

“It appears Carlton made good time in his visit home after all..” Thomas smiled.

“Oh, that will _vex_ Violet something _terrible…”_ Elizabeth smiled.

“No plotting, you wily minx. You are not of an age to become a match making mama just yet…” Thomas beams wickedly across to her.

“You, keep those wicked lips buttoned. One slip of the tongue could ruin the surprise of our little lemon’s existence…”

She urges as she folds her shawl tighter about herself, Thomas noted this covered up her midsection a little. If her dress was pulled tighter back across her swollen tummy, everyone would notice. It was just small enough to be concealed. But not large enough yet to give the game away.

“ _Oh_ , That reminds me, another one for the list, James?” He asked.

“Mmnn.” She pondered for a second.

“Charles?” She answered back with a smile.

“Anna..” He spoke up.

“Ruth..” She adds.

He makes a contemplative face at that.

“If you’re allowed James, then I’m allowed Ruth..” She pointed sternly.

“Foiled again.” He shook his head.

“Maybe we should discuss this _later?_  After it's revealed, I’m sure your Parent’s would wish to weigh in…” Thomas pointed out.

Elizabeth made _a face_. 

“Fine. But I’m telling you now. Warning you, actually. Once they learn of _this_ …” She speaks, her eyes darting to her midsection, before they met his again as she smiles.

“Felicity will want to name it after a silly character in one of her salacious novels. Mrs Sharpe would want me to name it after her mother, clementine, and as far as my father is concerned, as long as both the above do not occur, then he shall be as pleased as punch…” She told him.

_“Clementine…?”_

He asked. Barely containing the obvious wince that crossed his features.

“It get’s worse. Mrs Sharpe’s sister is named _Olive.”_

“Her family sounds like they were named after what their parents had leftover in the ruddy _fruit bowl.”_ Thomas mumbled lowly.

 _“Sssh.”_   She urged as the carriages rolled across, coming just by them. Not three feet away on the gravel drive. Slowly moving to a stop.

“What would you do if she heard you?” Elizabeth asks.

“I’d pray the Misses Fruit bowls didn’t come and rise to her aid and have me _flogged_ for such insolence..” He grins.

Elizabeth chided him with the look on her face.

“Impossible. I’d miss you too much..” She explained in a low voice, and a decoration of love. After a second or two.

“You are _only_ mortal, after all..”

He explains, tugging her close by the waist and kissing her temple. Elizabeth laughed at that.

Also because as the carriage rolled round to a stop, she saw nothing but Felicity and Mrs Sharpe practically flattening their noses to the glass window of their carriage. Drinking in, eagerly, the sight of the palatial sized home before them. Elizabeth smiled, her and Thomas moving across to the carriage as Thomas strode and opened the door to welcome his in-laws.

Felicity was the first to spring out, wafting out her arm so Thomas could grasp it and help her down as she giggled gleefully.

“Haven’t changed _a bit so_ _I see,_ pest…”

Thomas smiles, watching as she came to stand tall beside him. Preening and fussing like a show horse being trotted in front of the judges.

Felicity grinned.

“Why, have I not _grown_ since you saw me last?” She asks brightly, in her chirpy little voice.

Thomas had to disagree. There was a little woman stood in the place where He remembered there being a little madam he had once known. Gone was the childish build, she was starting to blossom into quite the little society lady. Her expressions no less cheeky, and her dress sense was a lot less girlish than it had been. She now wore a proper debutantes, scarlet red, rose pink gown, with a matching bonnet, coat and gloves. Made up finely in the little cosmetics she was allowed to use, to enhance her cheeky little face. Masking the freckles on the impish upturn of her nose. Her waify daintiness still present. She looked so much more elegant, Thomas noted. But she was still their little _pest._ No doubt about that.

“ _Aye_. In every manner but your _sense…_ ”

Came Richard Farrows call from inside the carriage.

Thomas grinned. Before the next arm that vied for his attention was Mrs Sharpe. He watched as Felicity trotted across to her sister, and threw herself into a strong hug. Elizabeth closing her eyes and smiling as she welcomed the hug, careful to keep her midsection from pressing into her sister, her noticed, so as not to spoil the surprise.

“Hello bug.” Elizabeth laughed.

“Come here then, let me look at you, my little debutante sister…”

Elizabeth smiled, holding Felicity out at arms length. Examining her dress, and intricate appearance.

“Well. You’re quite the ton lady now, are you not?” Elizabeth smiled.

“I’ve gone to every party and ball in London, and danced with every eligible young man there until my feet _quite hurt_ , you know. I’m a society woman now…” Felicity insisted. “I’ve had three gentleman callers this _month alone_. Though all of them were far too boring and spiritless for my liking…” She told.

Elizabeth raised an auburn brow. _She‘d clearly been up to her customary high standards of cheekiness, as per usual._

They both watched as Mrs Sharpe exited the carriage holding onto her husbands hand as she clambered down. Flustered at the grand house before them.

“Oh, goodness, Thomas, you never told us your home was of this size!”

She exclaimed in a pitchy tone. Mouth gaped wide as she gawped up at the impressively huge place before them The glorious pale brick of the house, almost shining a dusky golden yellow in the sunlight. Complimenting the grey slate turrets of the roof. Going well against the greenery and the blue sky which sandwiched it on the land where it sat.

“I am very pleased it meets with your satisfactions, Mrs Sharpe. It is excellent to see you again.”

Thomas smile down at her as she leaned in and pressed two kisses to both of his cheeks.

“I quite forgot how handsome you were, Thomas. All of London misses you something terrible… I must say. In my absence, too, I forgot what a _handsome_ gentleman you are.”

Thomas grinned, blushing shyly as he laughed, looking down to his feet.

“Madam, I must say in my absence from you, your flattery is none the less praising as it once used to be.”

Thomas smiled, bowing his head politely. He watched as his mother in law smiled elegantly, before she crossed to her stepdaughter behind him.

“ _Oh, my dear_ , we have missed you most terribly… _Something wicked_ , I tell you. A most cruel deprivation indeed.”

Mrs Sharpe cooed, tugging Elizabeth close and squeezing the very life out of her. Thomas feared for a second that his mother-in-laws firm hold would cause injury to his baby. But, knowing better, he kept his mouth shut and watched the heart-warming spectacle. Elizabeth scarce had time to breathe, before she found Mrs Sharpe kissed both her cheeks also, examining her eldest.

“ _Oh,_ you’re so beautiful. I forgot how much. Derbyshire Life as A Duchess must agree with you heartily, my love. _You’re glowing_. My radiant bride…” She cooed, stroking Elizabeth’s cheek.

_Elizabeth didn’t want to tell her the accurate reason attributed to her radiant glow, well, not just yet anyway._

“I missed you too, Mrs Sharpe. My legs have never been more at a loss of how best to place themselves, in your absence.”

Elizabeth winked, nudging Felicity in the hips with her own, winking at her sister as they giggled. And Mrs Sharpe chided both of them with her expression.

“Radiant and glowing you may be, but _changed_ you have not. You cheek.” She told off.

“I’m _monstrous_ glad to see you, Araminta. And I cannot pretend otherwise, not even for a second..”

Elizabeth merrily offered. Folding her Mother into an affectionate hug.

Thomas smiled at them, before he turned at a male groan coming from the carriage, as his father-in-law moved himself out and down onto the gravelled drive below, standing upright, smiling warmly at his daughters husband before him. Who was not so insulting as to offer him a hand down. Dressed in his usual formal suit, with differing shades of blue for his cravat, overcoat and waistcoat.

“Thomas, my boy. _Jolly well_ to see you again..”

“And to you, Sir.”

Thomas smiled, returning the mans warm, friendly handshake. Though Thomas could see the elder gentleman looked a little wearied.

“Are you alright, Sir Farrow, you look a little pale… May I fetch you something?” Thomas asks.

“Some _, much needed_ solitude will suffice…”

He grumbled lowly, so his wife and second daughter didn’t hear.

Thomas smiled knowingly.

“We have over 247 rooms. And I’m sure Elizabeth and I may point out to you the safest places of which to conceal yourself away in sir. With a good book and a glass of brandy next to a roaring fire, we’ll soon see you straight…” Thomas grinned.

“You are a _saint_ , Thomas. Have I _ever_ told you that?”

He asked his son-in-law. His smile was wide and his eyes danced with shining blue gratefulness underneath his half moon spectacles.

“My pleasure, Sir Farrow. I should wish for you to be contented..”

He watched as Richard took in before him the huge house.

“So, this is the estate is it? It’s a _very_ handsome building. Not a wonder you needed help with the upkeep. I can imagine a man could safely ignore his spouse for _weeks_ on end in a house this size…”

Thomas smiled.

“The kind of thinking my parent’s were fond of, also. I however, am, not _so enamoured_ of the idea… It seems I cannot see enough of my spouse, in a day, there seem to be too _few_ hours for me, Sir…”

He smiled, as they looked across to where the ladies were admiring Elizabeth’s dress, smiling and laughing away.

Richard knowingly examined the Duke’s face as he lovingly dissected his wife.

“ _I thought_ you might not be. And good for you. It is nice to know my daughter found a husband of whom respects, and admires her. It wouldn’t do to tie yourself into a loveless marriage, now would it?” He smiled.

“A tragedy of the age, Sir. Indeed.”

Thomas adds. Richard smiled softer as his hands clasped themselves behind his back. Before the second carriage door opening caught his eye.

“Excuse me Sir.”

Thomas smiled. Crossing past the elder man to help his friend out of his coach.

He got there, in time to see a very surprising sight indeed. It seems Benedict had not ridden alone, for in his carriage, sat a very familiar woman to whom he was distantly acquainted.

That Lady was one Violet Burchrowe.

Thomas raised a brow, looking across to find the familiar and ethereal face of his friend sat the opposite side to her. Smiling gently at the sight of the inquisitive Duke. She looked most pretty, an elegant town Miss. Clad in a flowing sage green coat, with an apple green dress underneath it. Scalloped and trimmed with white lace. Her hair was half secured up with a buckle like pin at the back of her walnut coloured waves, and her hazel eyes shone a bright green, along with her dazzling smile and her glittering golden earrings. Her hands were sloped neatly together in her lap, and she appeared very calm and genial. Benedict too, in a long black overcoat, with breeches and boots of the same colour, his hair was long in length, and was growing out into a halo of curls, his feline eyes were bright, warm and happy, and his posture too, was relaxed, and amiable, legs crossed, leant back on the opposite seat. _This was a sight he never thought his eyes would grace…_

“You needn’t looked _so shocked_ your Lordship. As it was, there was more room in Sir Carlton's carriage, and the Farrow’s summer coach is….. _quite small_ for four people.”

Violet smiled brightly, laughing prettily as she spoke.

“Correction. It becomes rather _tiny_ as soon as the littlest Farrow chit started drawling on about her gentleman suitors…” Benedict smiled dryly.

Violet chuckled.

Thomas smiled to his friends.

“I shall reign in my shock, and point out that neither of you appear to be in _body bags_ , as I would expect as you were both confined to a enclosed space together for a long amount of time…” He commented wryly.

“May I just take a moment to say, Sir Thomas. Your house _is incredible_...”

Violet spoke, looking up at the impressive grand yellow bricked house, shining gloriously proud in the sun.

Thomas twisted back to humbly smile at the house behind him.

“Well. It does for keeping the rain off.” He smiles genially.

Thomas then daggered a wry look across to Benedict, who tilted his head back at the Duke with a less than impressed glint flashing across his eyes as he watched his smirking friend. Inaudibly informing him that whatever devious thoughts were crossing his mind, would be met with a stern reproach and reprimand. Thomas took Violet’s hand as she rose to her feet, and came to exit the carriage. She gracefully eased down onto the gravelled drive next to her friend’s husband.

“Well. Though I daresay Mr Carlton is not exactly the world’s most decent, _sparkling witted_ , conversationalist, the alternative was to have ones own ears nattered off. I’d rather take a fleet of his monosyllabic grunts over an exhausting homily from the experiences of Felicity Farrow’s love life, _any day…”_

She promised. Seeing that Benedict chuckled at her words as he too heaved himself down from the carriage.

“ _Ah, yes_. Sir Benedict Carlton. _Master_ of The Monosyllable.” Thomas smiled.

“A hand down, darling?” Thomas offers cheekily.

Benedict glared, though, to his credit, it was ruined by his large smile. As he too stood straight on the gravel next to the Duke and Miss Violet.

“Married life looks like it disagrees with you. Kenworthy, you look _fatigued_. In attempts to claw back some retribution for your cutting remarks, I hope that your tenaciously flame haired wife plagues your heart out _day and night…”_

He swipes, clapping hands with his friend, shaking it warmly as they both laughed.

“Whilst you gentleman make busy on insulting one another under the guise of friendship, I must go give my hello’s to Elizabeth.” Violet explained.

She excused herself to go and crossed the gravel drive to go and bid her welcome to Elizabeth. The two men watched her hug the Duchess warmly before they resumed their conversation.

“I thank you for this concern, and am sorry to say that my wife is _not the cause_ of my haggard, and tired appearance…” He explained lowly.

At hearing that something was possibly wrong, Benedict’s smile faded, and his posture became a little less relaxed.

“If I may be so bold as to enquire, anything I can assist in?”

He asked, through the teasing and the swipes, if Benedict saw his friend was troubled, he would have done anything In his power to help. Ever was he a best friend.

“Not unless you’ve suddenly become a successful _hitman_ since I saw you last…” Thomas spoke lowly.

Benedict looked most curious indeed.

“All will be explained.” The Duke promised.

“We’ll, _no doubt_ , discuss it later. Over a glass of Whiskey.” Thomas illuminated.

“Words I’m _always_ fond of hearing…” The man grinned.

The two gentleman moved to re-join the hefty gaggle of ladies across from them. Their boots crunching on the gravel as they watched Violet and Elizabeth smile and eagerly chat together.

“Anyway, come inside. I’ll get Wilkins to have your luggage fetched…”

Elizabeth smiled, moving the party inside, into the blue parlour.

“My trunk cannot be left, Elizabeth. My ball gowns will become _quite creased_ if they are left unattended, and I cannot have a creased gown…”

Felicity spoke sternly. _Very sternly_. Matter of fact, a little _too sternly_ for a ten and six year old.

Elizabeth smiled. Looking across to Thomas with a knowing look. _She knew any missing her sister would be strictly waved goodbye too not three seconds after her arrival…_

“Wilkin’s is the best Butler in the British Isles, Felicity. Permit me to promise you that _no creased_ ball gown's will occur in this house under his watch...”

Thomas assured, linking arms with his wife. Leading their guests through the house.

They all passed through the front door. Mrs Sharpe on Richards arm, Benedict and Violet walked together, and Felicity tagged along, in tow behind her mother and father. All of them – save for Benedict who’d seen it before, gasped in awe at the magnificent ceiling, and the grandeur of the elegant staircase that the house was famed for.

“ _Oh_ , Elizabeth…”

Mrs Sharpe coos as she let her eyes sweep across the paintings artfully swirled onto the roof.

“Even if I woke up to see this each day, I _would still never_ tire of it…” Violet spoke in amazement, taking the sight of it in.

“The house is even more handsome inside, than out. I wouldn’t have thought it _possible_ …” Sir Farrow added.

“Of all the rooms in Chatsworth, this one still serves as my favourite...”

Elizabeth spoke as they moved down the hallway, lit brightly, with sun drenched windows beaming light into the place. The merry party talking, and conversing midly as they breezed along.

“Thomas? How many rooms are there here at Chatsworth?”

Felicity asked, with a curious, wide, cheeky grin.

“247 in total, pest.”

“Are all the bedchambers of a decent size?” She asked curiously.

“Yours is of a _perfectly serviceable_ size… Felic.” Libby assured her sister.

“I was just _wondering_ …” Felicity smiled smugly.

Thomas leaned in then to privately whisper in his wife's ear.

“I’ve missed your sister, _so ardently.”_

He whispered sarcastically.

“247 rooms. Dearest, Felicity Farrow can make them feel no more generous than a _shed.”_ Elizabeth assured him.

“ _Oh,_ pray tell me, has she been taking lessons from my mother?” Thomas asked.

“I wouldn’t wish to _introduce_ them and _find out_ …” She adds.

She watches her husband shudder violently at the thought.

“A more catastrophic situation, I cannot fathom.” He smiled back.

It is then they make it to the blue parlour, inviting everyone to sit down and get comfortable. The ruts and bumps of the Derbyshire roads took its toll on passengers travelling in any coach. Coats are shedded, tea is poured. And conversation flows faster than the piping hot beverage being poured from the silver teapot. Mrs Elmstone's cakes, scones and biscuits go down a treat with all the newcomers, as Elizabeth is regaled – from Violet, Araminta, and Felicity, of all the gossip from town. All the well wishes for their marriage. And the elbows into ribs of when they should expect to hear of the Kenworthy clan growing a little bigger, namely in the form of a little baby…

Elizabeth grinned upon hearing Mrs Sharpe's wish of such a thing, especially as she then added.

“But still, I suppose it is too soon to be clamouring after such things. It must come _naturally. In time._ If there's anything I know about starting a family, it’s that is must never be a rushed endeavour for a man and wife to start their, _bedchamber business…”_ Mrs Sharpe told, sipping her tea as she held the saucer aloft. Looking pleased as punch.

Benedict stoically blinked the thought away, Violet’s cheeks tinted a little rosy red, and she tugged at her collar to readjust it on her shoulders. Richard farrow shut his eyes and sighed. Smiling in exhausted geniality over to his daughter. Thomas said nothing as he gulped down his teacup, and Felicity giggled.

Elizabeth made a small, _‘Mnnn’_ noise of agreement in the back of her throat.

“Hardly a subject for afternoon tea, Mrs Sharpe. But, if I may divert the conversation onto, other, _merrier_ things… If you don’t mind my asking, What are your plans for next February?” Elizabeth asks.

Thomas smiles widely across at her because of what secret they both knew she was reveal. She catches his small, handsome grin, and returns it.

Mrs Sharpe blinked.

“Goodness, Elizabeth. What a question… I, well. _No_ , I do not think we’ll have _any plans_ just then. I certainly know of none lined up…” Araminta confessed.

“What do you think dear?” She asks Richard.

“ _Nothing_ comes to mind.” He concludes. Looking back across to his daughter.

“You’re _certain_ you have none?”

Elizabeth pressed, narrowing her eyes as she smiled wider at them both. Feeding off their confusion.

“ _Heaven’s,_ Elizabeth. What is the meaning of such a precise interrogation?”

“Well. I admit, nothing of urgent importance. But I just thought that the two of you, _everyone really_..” She spoke, gesturing to Ben and Violet also.

“I just thought it prudent to tell you, seeing as this is a _time sensitive_ matter, that come next February, the two of you will be _grandparents_. Felicity an Aunt. And, I wondered if you’d consider coming down to Derbyshire to be here for the birth of your first grandchild?”

The Duchess asked in a typically ‘Elizabeth’ style manner.

Thomas linked his fingers through his wife as he smiled proudly across at her.

Mrs Sharpe seemed to have gone as still as a statue. A look at Violet and Benedict showed they were grinning, in congratulations and merriment for their friends. Felicity looked astounded and happy, and the Farrow Elders seemed not to form words, Richard looked ecstatic.

Then suddenly, Mrs Sharpe damn near _flew_ out of her seat, racing across like a fine clad whippet across to her daughter, and son-in-law, making noises like a overexcited goose. Hooting and cooing. Fussing over her daughter, flattering the expectant pair with kisses and questions, and well wishes. There had been a teacup and saucer in her hands, but luckily, it was empty, which made it all the easier, as in her excitement, it was forgotten about, and quite _literally thrown_ over her shoulder in her joy. Thankfully, Richard managed to boast of sharp enough reflexes to catch the china cup and saucer before it smashed.

It appears, that Thomas and Elizabeth didn’t have to worry about their news not being received well. If judging by the way the expectant Grandmother-to-be currently sounded like an exultant owl in distress.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Fun Fact: Before he met Elizabeth, Thomas never paid much care to literature. But after seeing how fervently Edith and his wife adore talking and conversing about it, he makes every effort to try and read the books they gabble about - in secret of course. He scoffs to them at the notion of a man reading Austen’s novels. He has only just made it to the fifth page of Sense and Sensibility, as a matter of fact, he devoured Pride and Prejudice in about two days. He adored it. He wept with joy when Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy married. And he agreed with their dissection of the novel, that she was one of the best characters in all of literature. But of course, he’d never tell his wife or his niece this fact….


	79. Dinner Guests, Scared Duke's and Gossiping Women...

 

 

 

~ Be Warned: A lot of visuals coming up~

 

 

~ Thomas's Ensemble ~

~ The Man Himself ~

~(Sorry to say there are no pictures of a smiley Sharpe) ~

~ His Gift ~

~ Elizabeth's dress ~

~ Elizabeth ~

~ Violet ~

~ Violet's dress ~

~ Felicity, all grown up ~

~ Iris ~

 

~ Iris's Gown ~

~ Edith ~

(Unfortunately, It is way past Judith's bedtime, so she won't be present)

~ The Rest of Our Dinner Guests ~

~ A One Dashing Reverent Everett ~

(The two of these handsome f*ckers above will be the death of me)

~ Sir Benedict Carlton ~

~ A Hag of A Mother-in-law, Caroline ~

~ The Mysterious Suitor, Sir Rupert Farrell, The Earl of Audley ~

 

~ Let the Games begin...~

 

 

~ Later on, A Gaggle of Farrow and Burchrowe Women are going to be gossiping most avidly in a Duchesses dressing room ~

Elizabeth had torn herself away from the merriment of her family, and stole herself away to her bedchamber to drop herself into a gorgeously piping hot lavender bubble bath, wallowing blissfully and easing the incessant niggling pain in her aching back, before she clambered out – with unelegant ease – and agonised over which gown she wanted to choose for dinner. Luckily she had laid them out on the bed, when there came a knock at the door, she turned and bid them to enter, As she stood, with her cascading flame hair unbound down her back. She was perfumed and squeaky clean in her blue silken robe. She turned about to see that Elsie peeked through the door, seeing if it was safe to enter – Elizabeth blamed Thomas’s all consuming ardour for making the housemaids _so nervous_ about attending to her when she was in their bedchamber – she smiled at her mistress, and slid through the gap in the door.

“You rang for me, Mi’lady?”

She asked with a polite smile. Wiping her hands on her somewhat stained white apron over her deep blue wool servants dress, and the Duchess could see she was perspiring, looking a little dewy on her forehead and chest. She imagines it was sweltering downstairs. There was obviously a rush happening down in the kitchens, Mrs Elmstone often roped the housemaids into helping when they had no duties to attend to above stairs. Barking out orders left right and centre like a culinary commandant.

“I did. I’m afraid I have baby brain, and I cannot quite be decisive this eve, won’t you be a dear and help me pick a gown to wear for Dinner?”

She asks, smiling kindly and laying a hand on Elsies. Who nodded as she looked at the choices Elizabeth had laid out.

“I’d be happy to. Mi’Lady…”

She smiled obediently. Stepping forwards and looking at the two lovely gowns on the bed. A dusty blue chiffon, or a dulled moss green silk.

Elizabeth watched keenly as her lips pursed slightly. The Duchess tilted her head, smiling at the maid.

“Do I take it from the pinched expression, that _neither_ are suitable?” Elizabeth smiles.

Elsie spun to face the Duchess.

“I’m sorry, Madam. I mean no offense. And Nor do I mean to be so brusque. They are both lovely gowns, and I’m making no slight on em.’ But, If you want my good honest opinion, like you always says you does, then…. Well….” Elise explained nervously wringing her hands.

“ _Oh,_ you _are my_ ladies maid alright... Outright in speaking your thoughts.” The Duchess grinned. That was before she gestured in a sweep to her wardrobe.

“Please… Assist away. I welcome opinionated people, and I welcome their sentiments just as _wholly_. I find they are _far more_ trustworthy..” She explains.

Elsie curtseyed politely. Before she eagerly crossed to the wardrobe and gently pulled the doors open, searching through until she came out, holding one of Madam Landry’s exquisite works before her. It was the deepest, most vivid shade of blood red imaginable. It didn’t boast of any sleeves, but as she was only venturing to the downstairs dining room, she could take a shawl if she felt she would succumb to the cold. It was elegantly designed out of a scarlet shade of chiffon, and trimmed to the hem with a huge swathe of begian off white lace. With a bow stitched to the back. It was just the right shade of red not to drain the vibrancy of her hair. But to bring out the copper tone that ran through her tresses.

“You have _impeccable_ taste. Elsie. It's a perfect selection.” Elizabeth congratulated with a smile. Stroking a hand down the chiffon, feeling it glide under her hand, hearing the sound of it whisper in the air.

“Help me lace into it?”

Elizabeth asks, sliding off her gown, as Elsie helped her step into it as it mushroomed on the floor, held up by the numerous layers underneath It to give it it’s shape. It was quickly pulled up over her knees, up past her hips and belly, and tugged into place, the back open, showing the thin flimsy silk chemise under it, it was white, and didn’t disturb to cut of the dress as Elsie laced, quickly and efficiently. Elizabeth took a cursory glance over in the mirror when she was done. She would embrace Elsies good opinions a _ny day_ , it turns out the maid had been utterly right, it looked far more pleasing than the two she selected herself. Now all she need do was dress her hair, slide on her gloves and some jewellry and her stockings and shoes. It was all downhill from the dress onwards, accessories really.

“It’s a wonderful choice. Thankyou, Elsie.” Elizabeth smiled. The Maid curtseyed.

“Will you be needin’ any help with your hair, Madam?” Elsie asked.

“None at all. I shall manage…” She promises. “I daren’t divide you from that kitchen any longer, running so close to dinner time, or Ethel will have _my guts_ for garters..” Elizabeth smiles.

Elsie made a strained face.

“She was a little…. _Sharp, tempered_ when I was called away..” Elsie admitted.

“Send her my sincerest apologies. We’ll see how far _that_ meagre offering gets me…” The Duchess smiled warily.

Elsie laughed. Elizabeth was always so free with her speech and conversation. She felt more a friend, than a member of staff.

“I shall, Mi’Lady..”

She bobs into a curtsey again, smiling, before she bobs out of the room. Leaving Elizabeth to herself.

She crossed, holding her skirts well above her ankles, over to her dressing table. If she were still unmarried and in London, she’d be flogged by a passing society matron for an action such as that. She truly did wake each day, blessing it that she had successfully escaped such trivial and stiff etiquacy’s such as those. The direction in which she should hold her skirts, how she should address a man in public, and even how she had to look flawlessly beautiful and made up, but as if it were no singular ounce of extraordinary effort on her behalf. And that, for present, was _exactly_ they way she liked it.

After the door was shut, and she found herself alone again, she had just managed to hitch her skirts up high exposing one bent pale leg as she moved to slip on her stocking which was gathered in her hand, when a voice from behind her made her startle, and jump.

“ _Mmmmm_.” Came the low growl of the familiar voice, which was snarling in a most lustful and prdatory fashion.

“..Stockings…” Came the low purr.

She turned to see her husband, who had obviously entered through the adjoining bedroom so as not to be seen, stood in a state of disarray, as he leered, drying his newly shaven chin on the towel in his hand.

His white shirt was pulled open wide, and the cravat he had been wearing was snaked about his neck like a scarf. His red waistcoat had long since been discarded, along with his boots and overcoat. Obviously, he too was readying himself for dinner. He closed in on her as he entered the room. Following after him was a wave of his fine cologne, which he had obviously just splashed onto his cheeks after his shave. His eyes were bright and playful as he stared her down, one rogueish strand of hair flopping into his eyes. Elizabeth smiled as she snapped the hem of her stocking to sit high on her thigh, smiling and watching his hungry eyes follow the moment, lingering on her leg for a long moment.

In a society that considered ladies flashing their ankles about brazen and _promiscuous_ , Thomas catching a glimpse of her entire, rounded, perfectly shapely leg, was enough to feel a tug of lust at his gut for his marvellous wife.

She straightened up and thumbed away the small smudge of shaving foam he had missed by the corner of his jaw, near his ear as he came to her. He leered close, chucking the towel to sling over his shoulder and taking his glorious wife into his arms.

“Behave yourself. Mr Kenworthy. The rooms adjacent to us have _occupants_..” She reminds him.

“Then I’ll make love to you _quietly_ …” He winks.

“I don’t believe you _capable of that_ , Thomas…”

She laughs, stroking her hand to fold to the back of his neck, chuckling as he nuzzled down into her bare neck, bared beautifully by the dress. His hand devious snuck to the back of her waist, skimming delicately down the back of her charmingly bare neck, even her shoulders were left a little naked from this fetching red number she is laced into. He loved the sight of her exquisitely exposed neck, shoulders and the upper half of her dècolletage under her english rose pale as paper, skin. Made all the paler by the fire of her hair.

He nipped at her neck, smirking and pulling back before he speaks.

“Does my Lady require me to prove her _wrong_?”

He asks in a husky tone, waggling his brows.

Elizabeth pressed a hand flat to his bare chest, feeling his heart beat under his warm skin, her fingers brushing the faded red mark of the bullet wound scar ot his shoulder. Loving the delectable feel of his lean sinew and muscle underneath his hot skin, all gliding under her palm.

“She does not. She would like to see you all dressed and polished handsomely for dinner.”

“Makes me sound rather alike a silver dinner ware item, _Wife_ …”

He informs her dejectedly, at not being able to woo her, as they were alone, in private, and standing next to the elephant in the room – their bed.

“What are you wearing to Dinner?” She asks.

“This conversation is starting to drift into a very one sided affair if you ask me…” Thomas growled lowly, like a grumpy adolescent.

“That’s all well and good. Because I believe, no one did ask you…” Elizabeth smiled prettily.

Thomas made a moody face at her. One that belied the very true fact he was a fully grown Duke, and a father, no less. A relative whom was supposed to be the epitome of maturity and sensibility. But no. He glared and sulked as if he were a child, ill behaved, having their favourite toy snatched away from their very hands.

“White silk waistcoat, cream cravat, black velvet overcoat, grey breeches, black boots, and my fathers silver tie pin and cufflinks. Would that do?” He asked her with a sigh.

“Black breeches. You look _very dashing_ in black.” She smiles. He gives a roll of his eyes at her.

“Will you wear your lovely hair up tonight for me?”

He asks. Stroking his hand to tease along the back of her neck, combing his fingers through the recently washed coils of silky hair, setting her skin alight where he touched. Slowly caressing her.

“Of course. Though I am far too familiar with that teasing _purr_ to your voice to know such a statement is of innocent intent…” She beams brightly.

“Well.”

Thomas smiled in a drawl, walking away to the dresser, tugging open the drawer, reaching in, and pulling out a black velvet box. A _jewellery_ box.

“So that you can wear _this_ …”

He smiles, levering open the case, showing her the beautiful ornament resting inside.

It was a necklace. Yet another present he procured on the sly for her. He truly did spoil her rotten, and she knows she was undeserving of it, which only seemed to fuel the man on.

“ _Thomas_ …”

She smiles lowly. In a ‘ _you-spolied-me-with-another-present-that-I-don’t-deserve-haven't-you?_ Tone.

“You’re a very overgenerous husband… You need to _stop spoiling_ me..” She smiles prettily, examining the gorgeous necklace in awe.

“You’re sadly mistaken. I need to do it _a lot more_ frequently..” He smiles in a smooth as butter tone.

It was a beautiful item of jewellery, she reached her fingertips in to stroke across the jewels that rained down. It was a vine like necklace, littered with diamonds, set in a gold underlay, the stones shining and catching every bit of light it could. Thomas coerces her to spin in a circle, so he may better link the necklace across the front of her neck, and fasten it at the back, scooping her hair out of his path. Smoothing his hands down over the baby as he did, puckering a kiss onto her neck. As she examined the flawless jewellery that now crowned her pale neck in the mirror.

“Looked like it was crafted for you, my dear…” He smiled, nuzzling into her neck. Loving holding her in his arms.

“You’re the best of all husbands…” She grins.

“I hope you’ve _no just_ basis for comparison…” He japes.

She laughs. That bright, sunny laughter he would eternally love being the cause of.

“ _None at all_. You know you’re the _only_ man for me..”

She smiles, turning in the bracket of his arms, to press a kiss to his wonderful, generous, lips. He moans into her loving embrace.

“We’re _alone_ …”

He grins like a tiger when she pulls away, waggling those dark brows again, like a fine talent.

“ _Desist._.” Elizabeth urges. “Rascal.”

“We both need to finish getting ready. We’ve less than an hour and a bit before Dinner commences, and don’t forget, we are the hosts. And aren’t you having a whiskey with Benedict before hand?” She asks raising a sly eyebrow.

His face falls. He frowns.

“How in _heavens helpers_ did you know about that?” He asks.

She tilted her head, smiling, at having caught him and his intentions out.

“I heard you talking about it on the drive earlier, I’m not _deaf_ you know..” She beams.

Thomas looked all the more bewildered.

“You were several _metres away_ when I said that..”

He pointed out. _My god, did she have dogs ears too? Aswell as a nose that could put bloodhounds to shame…_

“I was blessed with _awfully brilliant_ ears…” She informs as she beams, looking rather proud.

 _Like a bloody bat Mrs K…_ He thinks…

“Now I know theres no god. To give a woman of your _, striking, beauty_ such talented auditory organs…” He smiles.

“Thankyou..” She accepts flatly.

He pulls her close to kiss her again. When comes a rap at the door. Followed by a soft cooing noise, and that cooing, he knew, came from one person, and one person only. Thomas pulls back and frowns at his wife in questioning…

“Was _that_?” He asks. Recognising that coo...

She grins.

“I’m afraid so…” She smiles in empathy.

“It would be wise to unhand me now…” She informs him.

“She _wouldn’t?…_ ” He asks in a low tone.

Elizabeth grinned, as lo and behold, across the room, he heard the sound of the door being creaked open, and his mother-in-law poking her head through the gap.

_Apparently she would._

“ ** _Never_** understimate Mrs Sharpes _tenacity_ …” Elizabeth whispers.

“Elizabeth, dear, excuse the intrusion. Are you decent- _OH!_ Thomas, dear, my but your not half dressed yet. I _do apologise_ , I am so sorry for the imposition. I just wished to _ask_ Elizabeth something..” She persisted.

“ _Or her peristence…”_ Thomas adds, whispering lowly to his Elizabeth.

“She won’t be leaving _anytime soon_. Don’t _waste_ precious time _wishing_ for it. It is a hopeless cause if ever there was one...”

She whispered back, smiling gently, still facing her husband. Patting his shoulder in comfort.

“I’m doomed to go and get dressed in _my_ changing room then it seems…”

He snarls lowly. He then slapped on a smile and peered round his wife to face his dogged mother-in-law.

“White Cravat, Actually, I changed my mind. But wear the black. Definitely the Black breeches…” She smiles in parting.

Thomas growls lightheartedly at his wifes orders. Before he turns his charming, at ease smile on Mrs Sharpe.

“T’is of _no imposition_ , Araminta. Rest assured. I should be getting ready myself….”

He smiled, spearing Elizabeth with a look before he turned on his heel, marching back to the bathroom and back into his own separate dressing chamber next door.

Mrs Sharpe giggled as she slunk into the room, pulling the door ajar after her. After Felicity flitted in after her aswell, of course. Tonight, the Elder Farrow-Sharpe wore a fetching gown of a deep, luxuriously rich apple coloured velvet. Trimmed with white lace, pearls hung from her ears, and she wore a sprouting green feathery ensemble from her greying coiled hair. Felicity, had draped her waify form in a beautiully lush coloured rose pink gown, with no sleeves, and of which was bordering on indecency with the way it was cut. But the shawl linked across her shoulders was a peach chiffon which she could use to cover herself up should she need too. In her lobs hung fine pale pink stoned earrings which sparkled in the light. Her hair was arranged neatly in a fantastic crown of coils atop her head. Hanging down was one perfect coppery brown coil leading down her shoulderblades at the back of her head. No doubt the two ladies were showcasing the very best of London fashion.

“He always manages to look so _, virile_ , when he was courting you dear. He is so muscled, and brutish, so perfectly a _enthralling_ specimen of man _…_ ” She sighs merrily.

Elizabeth blinks at that statement.

“He looks positively _voracious_ now he is to be a father _.”_ Mrs Sharpe chuckles. As does Felicity.

Elizabeth closes her eyes, and smiles a sigh. _She had missed them, it had to be said, but not their dissections. Not one smidgeon._

“It is _no surprise nor wonder_ as to why you’re with child…”

Felicity giggles. But was swiftly swatted with the back of Mrs Sharpe’s hand for such a crude statement for a young lady.

“That is a most _unbecoming and unsavoury_ topic for a ten and six year old, Felicity…”

Mrs Sharpe told off. Flapping about, her voice reaching to it’s most pitchy tone. Of which there were many.

“You wanted _to ask me_ something, Mrs Sharpe?”

Elizabeth asks fairly loudly. _Not crow and coo about the potent sexual prowess of my husband…_ She adds internally.

“Oh _, yes_. I wanted to know if I will be needing my shawl at dinner? I can imagine a dining room of such a huge, palatial size would be quite drafty…” She wonders, wringing her hands.

Elizabeth smiles.

“The dining room fire is stoked, Mrs Sharpe. It shouldn’t be drafty. It is not terribly huge room..” Elizabeth assures.

“Oh, if there is a fire, then will I need my fan? I may overheat…”

Elizabeth lets out a deep breath.

“We’ll seat you away from the fire, Mrs Sharpe. But I would bring a shawl, just for _the hell of it_ …”

She smiles. Forgetting how she could turn something so simple into a such an _arduous_ trial. It was one of her less finer talents.

“Libby, I adore your dress, where’s it from? Are there dressmakers nearby?”

Felicity asked, plonking herself on the bed, swinging her legs wildly as she spoke.

“Madam Làndry. If we go to town, Felic, I’ll take you to her shop. You’ll _adore_ her. She is the best seamstress this side of Paris…” Elizabeth assured.

“It looks so becoming on you. Even with your _huge, great belly…_ ” Felicity complimented.

Elizabeth smiled, sighing.

“You flatter with _such comely ease,_ dear sister…” Elizabeth cooed sweetly. And sarcastically.

“Felicity…” Mrs Sharpe chided.

“That is _beyond_ rude.” She told off.

“Thankyou, Mrs Sharpe..” Elizabeth accepted, moving to her vanity table to ready herself.

“Mnn.” Mrs Sharpe nodded, looking at her daughters midsection.

“Besides, She is only going to get _fatter_ and bigger as time goes along..”

 _Thankyou. Mrs Sharpe. Where would I be without your comfort?_ Elizabeth thinks. 

Elizabeth slumped down into her seat, sighing in annoyance, the energy to put up with her relatives was slowly but surely dissolving.

“ _Give-me-Strength_ …”

Elizabeth pleads in a hushed whisper to the ceiling.

“I know plenty of women who were _bedridden_ during pregnancy, you know, they became _so big._ They couldn’t _even walk..”_ Mrs Sharpe told Felicity.

“Did I tell you we have a Reverend Dining with us tonight. He is new to Derbyshire also. He now resides at Chatsworth Chapel and the old Vicarage down the road. Reverend Hugh Everett…”

Elizabeth spoke up, trying to divert them.

“ _Ugh,_ A Reverend. _How dull_ …” Felicity groaned.

"I’ve no desire to be bored to stupidity at the dinner table with some oaf of an old man dribbling on and on about our lord…”

“I agree, they make for very _dull and dry_ dinner guests…” Mrs Sharpe confessed.

Elizabeth crooked a brow, amused.

“ _Not_ Hugh Everett…” She grinned.

Mrs Sharpe looked bewildered at that.

“What do you mean, dear?” She asks.

“I’ll let you see for yourself…”

Elizabeth grinned in wily manner. Because she knew they thought that the Reverend would be an elderly drone who could put people to sleep as soon as he began to speak. She wasn’t going to tell them that Hugh Everett was among one of the handsomest men she had ever met, his beauty was paralysingly potent. And to top that off, he was a fine friend, a gentleman, and he could charm everyone he met with his kindness and sense of humour. They were in for a treat she fancied.

“ _Oh_ , and I fear I must warn you…” Elizabeth added.

That piqued both Farrows’s attentions.

“Thomas’s mother will be present for Dinner. And she is… _a trial_..” Elizabeth sighed irritatedly.

“Is she indeed?” Mrs Sharped asked, raising a brow.

“As elegant as Aphrodite herself. But she is as warm and welcoming as a _viper_.” Elizabeth snarls, sorting out her cosmetics.

Felicity and Mrs Sharpe shared a look.

“I’ve never heard you speak so viciously about a person. Let alone your Mother-in-law, Elizabeth…” Araminta confessed in a hush.

“You haven’t _met her..”_ Elizabeth promised lowly.

“As it was, the first three seconds after I met her she called me fat, underclassed, and told me she didn’t want the baby to be cursed with having my, what she deemed _, ‘unfortunate’_ hair colouring…” She spoke lowly, recalling how Caroline had insulted her.

Araminta blinked. And then bristled.

“Well…. I-. _well how very dare she_. Doesn’t she know we are a very well respected, and wealthy London family? We dine with Dukes and Earls, and we have our own beruche, and a high position in society…” Mrs Sharpe rattled off a list, having been so avidly insulted by a woman she had never, and had yet to meet.

“We are _not titled_ enough for her liking…” Elizabeth spoke, her blue eyes meeting Araminta’s in the mirror.

Her Stepmother went unusually quiet, stuttering, desperate to speak, but she was too astounded at the strangers rudeness. Insulting her daughter, and grandchild.

“Thomas doesn’t care that you’re not titled…” Felicity pointed out.

Elizabeth smiled, biting the corner inside of her lip. Her hand went up to brush the fine necklace he had surprised her with this very eve. _No_. She beamed. _Felicity was bang on right there. Thomas indeed, didn’t care, that she wasn’t titled._

Her hand fell to her belly, and she stroked the slumbering lemon within _. ‘We’re a lucky pair aren’t we lemon?’_ she thought.

She was just about to insert the first pin into her hair to arrange it, when came another timid little knock at the door. _How many more tonight? Elizabeth thought… Nonetheless,_ She called for whomever it was to come in.

It turned out to be Violet, who smiled, as she eased herself into the room, holding her light purple sequined skirts in her hands as she slid quickly through the door. She too looked effortlessly beautiful tonight. Her walnut hair, long and perfectly curly, was tugged into a high, fancy chignon piled high on her head, artfully achieved, showing off her finely structured neck and shoulders. The sleeves trailed artfully down from her elbows, and lace was trimmed across her scooping neckline. In her ears she wore diamond drops, and she looked elegant, and simply lovely, as she always did. Her heart shaped mouth split into a grin as she saw the fellow ladies in the room.

“Goodness, quite a gathering you’re hosting here, Lady Kenworthy..” Violet cheeked, curtseying.

Elizabeth smiled, amusedly crooking her head at her friend.

“Enough of the insolent cheek, Burchrowe…” Elizabeth winks.

“I didn’t know where the dining room was, I came to enquire. I would take the intiative and find it myself, but one wrong turn in this house and I could be wandering lost for _months_ …” She smiled eagerly.

“Very witty…” Elizabeth smiled, reaching for her golden earrings, to go with her dress, and to compliment the gold in her necklace from her dear husband.

“I did manage to find the library, though. And you were right, Edith has amassed a truly great collection for a ten and six year old…” Violet smiled.

“Hasn’t she though? I do adore Edith, she is Chatsworths little bookworm, and I esteem her very highly her for it…” Elizabeth smiled.

“Oh, Thomas’s sister and nieces are the _most pleasing_ bunch of women. It is such _a horrible_ tragedy that Iris should be bereft of a husband so early in her life.” Mrs Sharpe spoke empathetically.

“I agree.” Elizabeth smiles, standing as she fixed in her last earring. Before she saw that her relatives and her friend were all smiling stupidly at her.

“ _Heaven’s._ What’s the matter with you three?” A confused Duchess asks. 

 _"You're radiant_." Violet grins. 

“I’m going to be a _grandmother_ …” Mrs Sharpe coos.

Elizabeth smiled, dropping a hand down to her belly.

“I still cannot fathom that I will be a _mother…_ ” She smiled.

Violet crossed to her friend, and collapsed her into a hug. She could see the moisture forming in her blue eyes. Sparkling in the dusky half light of the bedchamber. She seemed to cry at the most stupid and pointless of things nowadays, but, that was all part and parcel of carrying Thomas’s baby. Violet pulled back, helping wipe away her friends tears.

“Whats it _like_?” Violet asked in lulling tones, soothing her friend.

“Please _specify_ that enquiry, Violet…” Elizabeth asked keenly.raising an auburn brow. 

“What’s it like knowing you’re growing life inside of you? That you’ll soon be a _parent?_ ” She asked.

“Exhilierating, _exhuasting,_ terrifying, amazing and _unbelievable..”_ Elizabeth finished.

Violet smiled.

“Why? Are you wishing for children of your own with a certain gentleman?” Elizabeth enquired slyly. 

Violet ground her jaw at her friend.

“Don’t be such a tenacious matchmaker, you. You’re not allowed to meddle until you’ve birthed that little Kenworthy…” Violet warned with a wag of her finger.

“I like to know I can get a headstart on these things…”

The Duchess grinned slyly. Because Elizabeth didn’t doubt for a single second that Benedict and Violet had softened towards each other as Elizabeth and Thomas had been back in Derbyshire. Elizabeth had watched the two converse and be around one another this afternoon. Sat near each other on the setee in the blue parlour. Their smiles were genuine, and there was almost a palphable warmth between them. Shades away from the insulting, and childish, biccering there had one existed between them. _Plus_ there was the fact that they had travelled up in the same carriage. If Elizabeth had suggested to her friend a month ago that she share a small, cramped, inescapable, confined space with Sir Benedict Carlton for hours on end, she had a feeling that Violet would exclaim that she’d rather stick her head into a _hive full of angry bees._

But, considering as the alternative was to share a carriage with Felicity and Araminta Farrow, she couldn’t really deduce whether or not Benedict had been the lesser of two evils in that respect. She wouldn't blame Violet in choosing the likes of travelling with a dangerous Rake, over her mother and sisters anyway, she’d heard them _talk… She empathised._

“Resist your urges as far as possible…” Violet demanded.

“I _make no such_ promises…” Elizabeth beamed.

“I fear you’ll make an excellent mother. And I, shall teach your children to play their instruments very badly, when I am an old maid, and how best not to embroider…” Her friend insisted;

“As godmother, of course, you have the right. But I fear I have Felicity for the role of poor sewing tuition. Ey, _Auntie Felic?”_ Elizabeth winked.

Felicity stuck her tongue out at her sister.

“Ladies use their words, not their tongues, Felicity Farrow…” Araminta chided.

Felicity rolled her coppery eyes.

“Careful. I think I just saw you grow even _fatter,_ _dear Sister…_ ”

Felicity sneered in a barbed, lighthearted comment. Sibling arguments between them would never be un-silly, Mrs Sharpe feared.

“Better a _fat_ tummy, than a skinny _brain…_ ” Elizabeth retorted right back.

Felicity huffed.

“Oh, you two…” Mrs Sharpe huffed in disbelief.

“Anyway. I can scarce believe it myself, a little _baby…_ ”

Mrs Sharpe crooned with a fond warmth to her voice as she stepped forward, her hand gently touching her daughter’s stomach. Smiling, her eyes still looking a little moist from the merriment of the earlier news. It would shortly be time for everyone in the house to meet in the blue parlour downstairs for a before dinner apperitif.

Elizabeth heard footsteps echo through the bathroom. The sound of boots. And before long, she saw her husband appear in the washroom doorway. Dressed In pressed formalwear for dinner, white cravat, white silk waistcoat, black velvet overcoat that looked keavenly on him. black breeches, and boots that were polished and pristine topping his long legs. Silver watch in his pocket, linked across his front.

His eyes set on fixing his cuffs, so he didn’t see the numerous women before him until he looked up, visibly flinching back from the sight of them all in his and his wife’s bedchamber.

“Hosting a soiree up here, are we dear? Thomas asks, nervously looking at all the females, gaggled about, grinning at him.

“We weren’t gossiping avidly about you at all….”

Felicity grinned, flirtily, her smile as cheeky as Thomas had ever seen it.

Thomas looked wearily about for a moment.

“I don’t know why, but such a suggestion fills me with horror…” He smiles, looking across to his wife.

The ladies laughed, and Thomas knew his nervousness was well deserved.

“Felicity. You are teasing a, _Duke…_ ”

Elizabeth smiled. Winking at her husband, who caught it and dropped her a charming, handsome smile.

“I shall be downstairs. Where I belong, with the males and the brandy. I’ll leave you hens to _cluck_ avidly and crow about us poor men folk…”

He supposed, crossing to Elizabeth, dropping a long kiss onto her hand before he pulled up and surveyed her for a long second.

“See you downstairs, Love of my life. You look enchanting, my darling, you _always do_ …” He smiles captivatingly at her, before he crosses to the door.

“ _Fellow Hens_ …” He parts in a farewell to them all, slipping out of the door.

He hears a ripple of feminine laughter burst out behind him as he closed the door, shutting it as he pressed his back to it. Sighing as he smiled, slumping against the doorframe. When would society women learn they were the perils of men everywhere when they wer ein large groups.

Luckily, a familiar friend chooses that moment to saunter out of his room, fussing idly with his cravat, before he catches sight of his friend, whom he frowns at, seeing him prostrate against his bedroom door.

“What in the _bloody hell_ is the matter with you?” Benedict grins to his friend. “I thought you went to see Elizabeth? He asks.

Thomas expels a deep breath.

“Napolean Bonaparte himself would be too scared to charge into that room…” Thomas confessed.

Benedict nodded, understanding.

“Women?” He asks.

Thomas nods.

“Lots of women. Gossiping women..” He told.

“The worst sort…” Benedict told.

“Come on…” Thomas urged. “I need that glass of whiskey…” He groans moving off.

Benedict smiled and followed after Kenworthy.

 

_The poor sod…_

 

~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the fact he thinks her a elderly old bat, Thomas actually turns to Ophelia for advice on many things. He once asked her about the wisest investment in stocks and shares. She may be batty, but Ophelia and Thomas made tidy profits in their investments to Chatsworth’s fortune. Ophelia used it to buy herself a new collection of antique stuffed badgers. One has a silly hat on. And a monacle. She named it stephen, and sometimes talks to it during the day as it sits in her ‘inner sanctum.’


	80. Nasty Nightmares, Cruel Humours, and Nastier Mother-In-Laws....

 

 

~

 

And so it was, that, eventually, Elizabeth was allowed to finish readying herself for dinner, and had ample enough time to show her sister, mother and friend downstairs to the red salon where everyone was gathering for entree’s and pitchers of brandy or wine before dinner was served. The four ladies crossed the threshold to see Thomas, and Benedict stood conversing over by the brandy table, and Iris, and Edith were sat on the setees, along with Mr Farrow, discussing literature by the sounds of things. Wilkin’s was handing round entrees and a housemaid, dressed in a pressed Sunday best uniform, was handing out the tray of amuse bouches prepared by their excellently gobby chef down in the kitchen.

Mrs Sharpe took a seat down next to her husband, as Felicity plonked herself down by her father too, all of them listening to what Edith was saying about books, erupting into laughter when she was finished. Elizabeth and Violet crossed to Benedict and Thomas stood by the brandy side table.

“Mrs Kenworthy, you look _delightful_ this evening, _as ever…”_

Benedict smiled, leaning forwards to kiss Elizabeths hand.

“Still possessing that dangerous charm and flattery so I see..” Elizabeth smiles.

“One of his _only skills…”_

Thomas winks to his friend, sipping his brandy. Missing the spearing look which Benedict daggered at him at hearing that.

Then, Sir Carlton’s eyes switched to Violet. Whom, Elizabeth had to admit, looked absolutely stunning in the flawless purple gown she wore this evening. Her faultless beauty shone through, in her smile, in the perfect slope of her heart shaped mouth. And her eyes glowed a hazel green in the candlelight. Benedict had never known himself to be more enchanted by a woman, than she.

“Violet… you look, perfectly- _wonderful._ ” He complimented in a hushed tone.

Elizabeth raised a brow. Sliding to her husbands side as he welcomed her there, pressing a kiss to her temple as he slung his arm across the back of her waist. Her hand sliding to cover his. The Duke and Duchess shared a look as Violet remain calm and composed, smiling beautifully like a benevolent angel. She met his eyes, and confidently replied to his comment.

“So full of praise for the ladies, Sir Carlton, as per usual.” She smiles.

“Well. I pride myself to be assured that my praise does not fall on _undeserving_ ears. Miss Burchrowe.” He adds. His eyes gentle, and his voice kind. “I may bestow many compliments, but believe me when I say that there is no person more praiseworthy of them, than yourself…” He smiles.

“And thank goodness, for I shouldn’t wish to think less of you for it..” Violet smiles.

There was a lull in the conversing as Benedict and Violet took a moment to look at one another, smiling, and getting trapped in the others gaze. Thomas sipped his brandy, with a smirk, as Elizabeth spoke up, disturbing the warm silence.

“Benedict, Thomas tells me you visited your home before coming here, I trust your family are faring well?” She politely enquires.

Benedict blinked, disjointing his eyes away from Violet to answer the Duchess.

“They are _all well_ , Your Ladyship. My Mother, Father and my Brother are in very high spirits…” He smiles.

“I am pleased to hear it. I think I had the pleasure of dancing with your brother at last years debutante spring ball…” She smiles.

“Yes, that’s right..” Benedict smiles. Elizabeth was always so kind as to remember the gentlemen she danced with.

“I do apologize, Madam. We Carltons are not known for our dancing ease…” He smiles.

“Christopher danced _beautifully._ As do you….” Elizabeth complimented. Benedict nodded his head at her in acceptance of the comment.

“I always forget you two knew each other before we met, dearest…” Thomas smiles, squeezing her tighter lovingly. Elizabeth smiles at him.

“You hide _your disdain_ of the notion _beautifully._ ” Benedict smirked to his friend.

“That’s because there is _no disdain_ to _hide_ …” Thomas lied.

“Your husband is an exceedingly skilled _liar_ , Mrs Kenworthy..” Benedict stage whispered to the Duchess, who laughed. As did Violet.

“The evening after he first met you, and fell madly in love with you, he warned me off with torches and pitchforks…” Benedict smiled.

“I never would have thought you were capable of that, Sir Thomas…” Violet smiled, shocked.

Thomas made a face across to his grinning best friend.

“This I well know. For the sake of his blood pressure, I managed to keep up the pretence…” Elizabeth adds into the conversation.

“Your senses of humour are very _cruel_ …”

Thomas smiles, nudging his wife in the side.

There came suddenly a male voice clearing their throat from beside Elizabeth. She turned to find Wilkins who bowed politely toward her.

“Forgive me madam, your Lordship, but I fear there may be someone at the door who commands your _urgent_ attention..”

He offers, his green eyes glittering, before everyone turns their heads across to the door, and find a little eager blonde haired head peering into the room.

Elizabeth and Thomas both smiled. 

“I’ll deal with the intruder. Thankyou Wilkins. Everything is excellent, we’ll move to the dining room once all of our guests have arrived…” She smiles, before she excuses herself.

She glides across the room and easily widens the door, seeing Judith grinning up at her, her feet bare, her curly butter blonde hair thrown about in wild dissaray on her head, she was still clad in her nightgown, and a teddy was being cuddled to her chest.

“And what is my Queen doing out of bed at this late hour?”

Elizabeth asks in a smile, crouching down after she opened the door inwards. Stroking her knuckles across the back of Judith’s little soft cheek. The little tots big baby blue eyes roamed up to find her aunts. And they were teary and afraid. 

“I had a nightmare…” Judith mumbled in a scared tone.

Elizabeth tilted her head. Before she reached out and took the little one into her arms, hoisting her up into a hug, holding her in a hug.

“Bad dreams are frightful arent they? _Nasty things._ But you needn’t be scared. Judith. I’m here now. It’s alright…”

Elizabeth cooed, hugging her tight, comforting her.

“It was about Nana Caroline. She _scares me_ …” Judith whispered to Elizabeth.

“She scares _me_ too.”

Elizabeth smiled back. Because she could see why. Caroline was imposing when she towered over little Judith like she did. Lording over her youngest grandchild without the slightest clue of how to handle talking down to Judith.

“What do you say we get you back to bed? Perhaps we can persuade Nanny Lyons to read you some fairytales? And you can forget about Grandmama Caroline? _Hmm?_ ” Elizabeth asked nicely.

Judith sucked her thumb and nodded. Elizabeth didn’t wish to interupt Edith and Iris, they were smiling and conversing with the Farrows, and it was no trouble for the Duchess to lend them a hand with their little poppet.

They turned about, and headed down the corridoor, and Elizabeth and Judith damn near jumped out of their skin when she is happened upon by an impassive woman stood down the end of the hall. Judith whimpered and clawed into Elizabeth, snuggling down into her Aunt. Her huggable, beautiful lovely, fun Aunt, who always smelt like lovely French perfume. And who always protected her. Hiding away from the scary, stony faced Caroline who stood daggering a glare at the two of them.

The woman _was beautiful_ , but severe. Dressed tonight in a golden gown that hung off her shoulders, with a sequined lace trim, and large extravagent earrings in her lobes. Her hair was coiffed finely up and off off her face in a fancy french braid. Curled to perfection. She looked elegant and scarily impressive with the way she looked down her nose at the Duchess.

“What on earth is _that child_ still doing up, Elizabeth?”

Caroline asked, as if the Duchess were a wayward maid. Unable to perfom her duties in a pleasing fashion. And lord help her, Elizabeth felt herself grow rageful as caroline spat _‘that child’_ towards her grandchild as if she were nothing but a _mucky orphaned_ little street urchin.

“She had a nightmare, Caroline. I’m just delivering her back upstairs to bed. I didn’t wish to disturb Iris with the matter.”

Elizabeth told, holding the scared Judith tighter. Of whom, elizabeth noticed, as the Countess drew near, wriggled further down into hugging the Duchess, hiding from the sight of her. 

“ _Mmmm_..” Caroline spoke lowly. In obvious displeasure. Glaring down her sharp nose at the little child in a way that would have scarde anyone. 

“Well. I suppose I shall go and look after the guests, Like any _good and decent_ hostess would bother to. But don’t you worry, I’m sure you didn’t learn during your, modest  _teachings_ , in London that it was unforgivably _rude_ to leave one's guests unattended in such a manner. Then again. maybe I was expecting _too much_ from you..”

She spat nastily in a calm voice, before she skirted round the Duchess, slapping on a smile as she flounced into the room before her. Making sure _all eyes_ turned to her as she entered.

Elizabeth was left glaring angrily at the spot where she had been.

“I can see why she fronted _your nightmares_ Judith. She _certainly fronts mine_ …” Elizabeth growled angrily.

“She’s not very nice, is she?” Judith asked.

“Forgive me for being so rude. But, I don’t think there is _a nice bone_ in her body, poppet…” Elizabeth offered.

“I heard Mother tell Edith off today for saying bad things about her.” Judith confessed.

“Your mother is the complete opposite, I don't think there is a single _bad bone_ in _her_ body. She always endeavours to think well of everyone she meets…” Elizabeth explained.

“Mama’s nice, isn’t she?” Judith asked.

“She is lovely in _every_ aspect, just like _you_ , _and_ Edith, _and_ your Uncle Thomas..” 

Elizabeth smiles, as she bops Judith on the nose, causing the little one to smile. and forget her nightmares. If just for a second. 

“Auntie Lizabeth?” Judith asks.

“Yes sweetheart?” Elizabeth answers.

“Will you live here _forever?_ I’d like it _very much_ if you did live her forever… with me, Edith, Mama, and Uncle Thomas, _and_ New baby….” She smiles.

That little plea, along with Judith’s sweet little blue eyes, big and blinking, looking up at her, melt Elizabeth’s heartstrings almost instantly.

“Of course I will.”

She promised. Kissing Judith’s forehead.

“What do you think about getting a new little baby cousin?” Elizabeth asked.

“Hmmm..” Judith thought for a moment.

“We’ll definitely have more people for the play this year. Do you think you and Thomas have another one?”

Judith asked, as if it were as if they were buying bonnets, and not producing actual human lives.

“No word on that yet, I’m afraid…” Elizabeth smiles.

“Please be so good as to let me know…” Judith grins.

“I wouldn’t dream of not doing so. You could have me up for treason, I daresay..” The Duchess smiled as they walked along.

Elizabeth carried Judith out into the hall, seeing that candles were lighting up the dark manor with a dusky glow in contrast to the dark night that had fallen. There were members of staff milling about, lighting candelabras, and rushing between the kitchen and the dining room. They had just gotten across the foyer and up the stairs, and Elizabeth handed Judtih over to Agnes, who would go and put the little one to bed, as Agnes was one of Judith’s favourite maids. Elizabeth waved goodnight, and watched Judith toddle away, as she turned to head back toward the parlour and her guests, she saw that across the foyer, that Wilkin’s had attended to the door, and was now taking the coat off a dark haired gentleman who had just entered the house.

That gentleman was Sir Rupert Farrell. The Earl of Audley.

The Earl reputed to be a little bit of a ladies man, fond of the drink and the card tables.

She had been asking around with the staff, because If there was one thing as certain and sure as night follows the day, it was that the ladies maids know, _literally, everything_.

Local gossip, the word about town, forget columns dedicated to such, the housemaids knew the _lot._

And Elizabeth had taken advantage of their font of wisdom, and had learned he had dallied with _many_ ladies around Derbyshire, but never showed any inclination to wed. He lived a charmed bachelors life, filled with money and human comforts. And Elsie said that she heard the cut direct from a Scullery Maid in his house, that he was inclined to be of a vile, vicious and short tempered man when the mood struck him.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, raising one brow, smiling to herself in a cunning and pleased manner before she glided over to the Earl. She was getting to the bottom of this strange conundrum. That as soon as Caroline happened to turn up, out of the blue, then all of a sudden, an Earl was knocking on their door, after all these years, all of a sudden baying after Iris. She didn’t believe the two to be unconnected coincidences. Plus she didn’t trust Caroline one little bit. That didn’t help the Earl Of Audley’s case.

So help her, she was on the warpath. Make no mistake about it. She was out for blood. Sir Rupert had better watch his step about her.

“The Earl of Audley, Madam. Sir Rupert Farrell.”

Wilkin’s introduced, watching as the Duchess of Chatsworth glided over to greet their new guest. Her eyes and her spirit as fiery as her hair. She had a gentle rested smile on her face as she surveyed their dinner guest. She was, elegant and refined, dignified, and as the expression goes, killing them with kindness.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Sir Rupert. I am Elizabeth Kenworthy. The Duchess of Chatsworth."

Elizabeth smiled, watching as the man absentmindedly threw his coat across to Wilkins in a careless manner. From that rude first impression, she already didn’t like him. His reputation she heard from the maids secured her mild aversion to his persons.

He was very obvious in scanning the Duchess up and down with his Rakish eyes. Letting his orbs wander over her figure before he bowed, and delivered her a curt, sly smile. A wicked smirk. Especially as he reached out and kissed her hand before he bowed.

“You are a breathtaking vision my lady. I see now why the Duke snapped you up into a marriage match. No mortal man _could resist_ such beauty.” He smiles.

Elizabeth almost laughs as she watched Wilkin’s make a repulsed face as he puts the coats away, at hearing the Earl's only _too eager_ comment towards her beauty. Despite this, she remained composed.

“You flatter me unecessarily, Sir.”

She rebuffs. The remnants of a polite smile on her face in response to his slimy, all too devoted, compliments.

“May I then thank you for this gracious invitation to dine with you and your guests..” He adds.

She smiles, as he moves to step and take her arm.

“My mother in law informs me you have called many times upon our beloved Iris in these past few weeks..” She spoke as they walked along.

“Has she indeed? Well. Pray, may I enquire, does Iris speak to you…. Of me?” He asks.

 _A vain being at that too_ , Elizabeth thinks.

“She has not.” Elizabeth cuts off brusquely.

“ _Oh,_ because, as it is, I imagine you are her…. _main confidant_ …”

Elizabeth turns and spears him a look. But she smiled to soften the blow.

“Only when she has something to _confide_ …” She informs him firmly.

“And does she?” The Earl pressed, looking curious.

“Forgive me for being _so blunt_ , Sir Rupert, but what is the state of affairs between you and Iris?”

She asked resolutely. She didn’t care if it was rude. As any polite lady would, she wished to know his objectives towards her beloved sister. Come hell or high water should they be dishonourable.

He seemed a little taken aback by such a sudden and imposing question. But he smiles, and meets her eye line as he answers.

“You should know, I intend to court and _marry_ her…”

Elizabeth felt cold, dreadful shock line her stomach at hearing him declare himself so confidently.

“....And has she spoken to you _of her_ wishes?” Elizabeth asked.

“No. But I am assured by Caroline that she beholds some affection for me.. She is a...little _quiet_ In speaking out about her emotions…” He told.

Elizabeth’s blood was reaching boiling point.

Caroline was meddling where she should leave well enough alone. And all because Iris was too timid to say no and take a stand towards her mother.

“I am sure, she would make an _excellent wife_ , for me… She would give me an heir, and I would ensure that her girls are cared for, sent away to the best boarding schools in the country. They can hardly stand to be _homeschooled_ anymore in this day and age. It is most unseemly. _Almost medieval_ …”

He scoffed, announcing it as carefree, as if he were doing something as trivial and inconsequential as buying a new hat. When in actuality, what he was doing, was dividing away the future and happiness of a family.

_Of her family. And Caroline was helping…_

_She wouldn’t stand for that, so long as there was breath in her body._

“And what of love?” Elizabeth asks. “Do you even _love her?”_ She asks, trying to sound less angry than she felt.

He gave the most horrifying answer.

“She is.....  _pleasing_. But I _do not love_ her…” He answers with a shrug.

Elizabeth couldn’t speak. She was doing her best to put all her effort in remaining upright, and walking.

“Love can come in and with  _time_. Your ladyship. The truth is far less romantic than that. I am a realist. I need a rich, titled wife. Iris is _exactly that_. And I can promise her and her girls wealth and prosperity. And the power and privilege of having a high title...” He told simply.

Her eyes scanned over his face, to find that he was perfectly serious about such a thing. She tried to crush down the terror and fear that spread through her. Because She was saved from such crushing devastation by one, solitary and meagre, little comforting thought alone:

_Thomas would never give his consent to his Beloved Iris marrying such a despicable man with loveless, and calculated intentions._

That was standing alone as the only thought that was proving to soothe her from her swamp of worries.  _Her husband could never approve…_

And she was clinging blindly onto the hope that he would not.

They came down to the blue parlour where all the guests were gathered, hearing the laughter and chatter bubble out of the room to where they now stood.

“I am sorry to have been _so_ intrusive. But Iris, is very _dear_ to me. You must understand. I was only enquiring into her happiness with you...” Elizabeth offered in apology.

As everyone stood conversing, Caroline broke away, excusing herself from the conversing to come and welcome the artless rich man she had hand picked to insert into her daughters life. Elizabeth had no interest in watching the horrible woman make an exhibition of the way she merelyc rossed the room is astounding elegance, her eyes switched to Iris, sat on the sofa by Edith and Violet. And her _heart broke_ ,

Because she then had to watch the woman’s face fall as she caught sight of the man on her arm. Obviously not pleased to see him. and not pleased to see how passionately her mother showed partiality to him, either. 

 _Oh, Iris._ Elizabeth sighs to herself...

“it is understandable you are so concerned, Madam. I think it perfectly _adorable_ of you to watch after Iris so passionately, but surely she is a grown woman capable of _declaring herself…”_

He asked, in barbed humour. Mocking her.

“I hardly think she needs a _protector_ , Your Ladyship..” He offered.

Elizabeth looked at him then. Her blue eyes frosty, and her expression not pleased, nor affable.

“Then you, Sir, don’t know _Iris_..” She informs him firmly. “She does not showcase her feelings easily. It is who she is. She has known great sadness and tragedy inher life. You of all people should know that. Having been in the same regiment as her _late husband_ …” She tells him, with a bite to her tone. 

“Besides, Your Lordship… There is one thing that may prove a stumbling block to your plans to march Iris up the aisle..” Elizabeth glares mildly.

“Which is?”

The Earl asks, seeing the Duchess was turning icy towards him and his mocking her.

“Iris would _never_ marry without mine, Edith, nor Thomas’s consent…”

“I am an _Earl.”_ He informs her loftily, and confidently as if that would rescue him away from his  _every_ conceivable problem. 

“You will be no more than a  _rejected suitor_ if myself and my husband deem you unworthy. I don’t care if you’re the king of the world, Sir Rupert, If you won’t serve to make Iris _happy_ , then you will find yourself _wanting_ and _empty_ handed...” She promises him.

"Rest assured, I'll make _damn sure_ of _that_." She pledges. 

His jaw stiffened as he looked at her. Unfortunately, this was roughly the point at which Caroline drew close and caught Elizabeth’s words to the Earl. She made no show of hiding her dirty glare towards the Duchess of Chatsworth. Her face turned sour and she snapped at her stupidly stubborn daughter in law.

“How _very dare you_ , Elizabeth. Speaking so rudely to one of your guests. You’ve no sense of decorum whatsoever. I was right to not expect any better of you, I see.”

She turned to Sir Rupert.

“I do apologise, Sir. Elizabeth is not _capable_ of conducting herself in front of any _decent_ society. I owe that all to her _upbringing.._.”

She snaps, turning and daggering a poignant glare to where her family sat talking on the sofa.

“… No self respecting gentleman would ever think of _connecting themselves_ to _such_ a disgrace of a low class family.” She sneers.

Elizabeth wanted to _slap_ her. rake her nails down the snarling womans pristine and horrible face. Actaully, _no_ , one better, she wanted to _wring her neck_ til there was no breath left in the hags horrible body.

As it was, she remained composed and doing nothing but letting her eyes burn an acidic glare in her mother in laws direction. Unable to say a word to such hatred.

“If you’ll forgive my _butting_ in Madam. But a better question to ask oneself, _surely_ , would be what self respecting woman should knowingly connect herself to _such_ a _mother in law…”_

Came a dry voice from behind them. Deep and rich, was the man’s voice

Elizabeth turned to see the wonderful Hugh Everett step into the room, having heard every word of Carolines biting remark to the Duchess. He stood behind Elizabeth, tall and towering in his evening wear. A velvet blue overcoat, with black breeches and boots of the same colour, his undershirt was white, his cravat was a pale blue, and his waistcoat was a soft dove grey, secured with a pearl tie pin. Un the candlelight, his tawny hair glowed in a wave as it was brushed back off his face. His eyes were dark and stormy, irritated as he heard Elizabeth being offended so horribly.

She smiled gratefully to the man. Caroline glared at the stranger.

“And you are?” She burst out rudely.

“Reverend Hugh Everett. Madam.” He retorted.

His eyes switched across to Sir Rupert Farrell. And something flashed across Hugh’s eyes then. He seemed to freeze, like a statue, doing nothing but stonily surveying the man in front of him. Sir Rupert smirked. It was wide, and it was cruel. The tension in the air was stiff and palphable. But they were brought back down to earth by Caroline fussing and stuttering, embaressed that she had been so rude to a Clergyman.

“So, we meet again, Everett. What a pleasant surprise…” Rupert sneered.

Elizabeth watched as Hugh didn’t really respond. His face was impassive and hding a million surging emotions that raged inside of him like a tempest. He settled the gentlemans sickly greeting with a lukewarm nod.

 _“Oh, do_ forgive me Reverend. I _do apologise_. I was merely… _unsettled_ …”

Caroline flapped in an excuse. Glaring poignantly at Elizabeth once more.

Hugh’s eyes nor expression didn’t soften. He kept his hands folded behind his back.

“I do have something, I would speak to you about...”

Caroline supposed, trying to smile and be genial to the man in front of her who was not phazed by such false flattery now he had seen her true, _nastier nature._

“I do _worry_ for my family you know. No one else takes such care of them. They are not particularly taken with religion as I am, and I do fear for their souls. They do not take it as seriously as I do, I worry for them, for taking care of their earthly souls before I pass on.”

“I believe earthly souls, madam, reflect outward in what kind of people we are…” Hugh told. “And as this is the case, if this is reflected in the way you outwardly reflect yourself, then I’m afraid judging by the way you speak onto others, I have _no good news_ for you regarding where _your earthly soul_ is headed _down_ to…” He dug. "It doesn't look good." He promised. 

Before Caroline could say another word at such a heavy handed insult of his, Hugh took Elizabeth’s arm, daggered a look at the hateful man opposite him, and walked away with the Duchess to bid good evening to his host.

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judith has always wanted to be a writer when she grows up. For she regrets the fact that she is not near enough to the sea to learn of how to be a Captain. And the title of the Queen of England, is sadly, taken. She would like to grow up to be the next Shakespeare. Her first play - currently still under production - features a Unicorn, a rabbit named Eric, a Pharoah, Henry VII and the ghost of a beheaded Roman Emperor.


	81. Fine Dining, and The Noble Art of Fine Conversation...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May I just take this opportunity to be all mushy and soppy and thank each and every one of you in limitless gratitude... 40 bookmarks, and over 500 kudos, and 90 subscriptions (I can't even comprehend that!!). I am merrily overwhelmed, and part of what makes the job of writing this so rewarding and lovely, is the beautiful people who adore it, and take their time to tell me as such. I love you. All. You are no less than amazing. and here's to the next 40.... 
> 
> (and I also must say, I never in a million years thought this story would reach 80 chapters... But I was wrong. Again. I owe this all to you guys, to whom, it is a delight to write for)
> 
> \- Author  
> x
> 
> oh, and p.s I know this is short, but no less vital. More is coming!

 

 

~

 

After the Reverend personally delivered Elizabeth onto Thomas’s arm, he warmly greeted and introduced himself to Chatsworths new house guests. Elizabeth was right to predict that both Mrs Sharpe and Felicity alike went a little wide eyed, flushed pink, and dreamily distracted in his presence, knowing now what she had meant when she declared they would find him to least dull and dry man, in all of the British Isles.

After it was declared that Dinner was ready to be served, As social norm dictated (and to appease Mrs Sharpes stalwart wish to always ahere to it) Thomas led Elizabeth into the dining room first, on his arm, as the highest gentleman of rank. Benedict and Violet headed in together, and before Reverend Everett could offer his arm to Iris, The Earl swooped in andnalmost grabbed her hand to escort her through to dinner, glaring at the man as he did. As it was, he bit the bullet and took Caroline’s arm as she offered. Mrs Sharpe and Sir Richard followed shortly after, with Edith and Felicity in tow bringing up the rear of the party, having a frivulous conversation about ballgowns.

“You should know your Mother intends to auction Iris off to the nearest man with a peerage she can get her talon’s into..” Elizabeth hushed quietly, but fiercely to her husband.

Thomas turned to his wife.

“Audley?” He asked.

Elizabeth didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was too angry.

“ _Odious man_.” She hissed under her breath.

“She always was a stickler for trying to preserve and uphold the rank of the landed gentry..” Thomas explained lowly.

“I _don’t care_ if she trying to uphold the sanctity of the goddamned _bloody Queen_ , Thomas. She is forcing Iris into a loveless marriage with a money grabbing bachelor who doesn’t even _esteem_ her.” Elizabeth hisses back.

“Iris _is_ a grown woman.” He pointed out kindly.

“Thomas, _you know_ her nature, she wouldn’t _dare think_ of standing up to your mother’s tyrannical hold. She is timid, and she does not always possess the bravery to speak her mind…” Elizabeth hushes.

“Alright, _alright…_ ” Thomas soothes, rubbing her hand, seeing she was becoming very passionat and flustered by the situation. Due to her state, her hormones ran rampant, he was so learning she was leathal to be tested against in this state. And also, he could see, quite rightly, she was trying to protect her family.

“I will, try my best, to lay my mothers actions to rest. I promise.”

He smiles, squeezing her hands. They were coming now to the head of the table, where Thomas would take his place, and Elizabeth would take hers directly to his right. Benedict was on Thomas’s right, and Violet next to him, then Iris and Sir Rupert next to her. Mrs Sharpe and Sir Farrow would be placed on Elizabeth’s side, as would Revrend Everett next to them, and Then Edith and Felicity on the end.

“I’m sorry to get so wound up. But I just…” She peered back around to see Iris walking with the odious man a couple of people behind them.

“You… _ignored_ the sanctity of social convention, and rank, and you married _… me._ You married for _love._ I should wish, very much, with all my heart that Iris should be allowed the _same courtesy_.” She explained as they stood by their chairs ready to be seated after everyone else filed into the room.

“…I know what it is like to be so forced upon a man to consider marrying. A man whom doesn’t respect you, and you him. A man you could never possibly grow to love. _Please_ , I will beg of you. _Please_ do not make Iris suffer _that pain_. She has suffered enough.” Elizabeth pleads.

Thomas looked across to her then, and at the resigned look on her face, his heart started to hurt. He expelled a silent sigh, his expression softening to something aching and empathetic for her. He knew then that before he had come along, his wife had been fated to undergo that exact same pain. Of being matched, hopelessly, to a man who she was expected to find marital bliss with. He knew then, how strong and brave his wife was, and what possible horrific actions could have possibly led her to such courage. Anyone who found their true love, rank and society be damned, they should be allowed to hold onto it with both hands, and never let it go.

“ _I promise_ …”

He vowed. Because that was all he was capable of saying, or doing. That, and leaning over, capturing her hand in his, and kissing it firmly. Holding it tight thereafter.

“He said he would send Edith and Judith away to boarding schools.” She adds lowly.

Thomas met her eyes, and as everyone was assembled in the room now, at their places, they all began to sit down, folding their linen napkins across their laps.

“S _end them_ away?!..” Thomas asked hotly. Seeing his wife nodded at this. His jaw stiffened. And the vein in his neck became prominent, as it always did when he became angry.

The Duke and Duchess lowered themselves into their seats as Elizabeth gave the nod to Wilkin’s for the first course to be served. Elizabeth looked at her husband, before flickering her eyes off down to her guests, smiling, and re-entering their polite and noble conversing.

Save for those who were already conversing, everyone saw as Sir Rupert down a glass of wine in one gulp, and summoned for another. They had barely even just sat down.

“He is a charmless man, is he not?” Violet asked leaning in to whisper into Elizabeth’s ear.

Elizabeth daggered her friend a poingantly sharp look, and noted with disdain.

“The most charmless of all…” She answered back.

And with that, so began what was sure to be, a long, arduous Dinner…

 

~

 

Everyone tucked in as the first course, Ethels famed green pea soup. The candles on the table danced shadows on the white cloth, and the candelabras on side tables flickered shadows to dance and skirt up the wine red, scarlet walls of the formal dining room. The fires glow from the gently roaring fireplace adds to the pleasant low light of the room. And the buzz of chatter is constant and humming through the room as dinner is devoured eagerly, and can be heard the clanking of wine glasses being drunk from, and cutlery hitting the porclain soup dishes as everyone sups down the soup, and relay their compliments for the food to the Duke and Duchess.

“Does your Great Aunt not wish to dine with us tonight Sir Thomas?”

Violet speaks up after daintily sipping on her soup spoon. She wasn’t usually so taken with soup of the pea kind, but this was extraordinarily good.

Thomas offers her a wry smile. And Elizabeth smirks as she sips her elderflower fruit cordial. Of which, coincidentally, Thomas also had the same beverage in his wine glass. Seeings as they would abstain together.

“There are few people with whom my Great Aunt can tolerate with _absolute_ , equanimity…”

He offers, flicking his gaze to land so briefly on his mother, and when Violet followed his eyeline. She smiled. Understanding instantly. Caroline, to absorbed in talking to Sir Rupert, did not notice their eyes landing on her.

“Elizabeth mentions her _so frequently_ in her letters. And so often as a source of great wit, oustanding amusement and blunt entertainment, I was just curious if us London newcomers had _scared her off_ this evening…” Violet smiles warmly.

 _“Mnn_.” Elizabeth interjected in a negative tone, frowning as she took a sip of her cordial, before standing it down. Swallowing so she may speak.

“Ophelia’s reasons for not appearing at Dinner _would never be_ for fear of anyone. Like me Violet, you speak your mind, she’d _adore_ you.” Elizabeth promised with a smile.

“This is the same woman, whom, upon, one of my several visits here, declared she had recently visited a relative who was very ill, and bedridden with a severe affliction. Opehlia recounted to us she marched into that room, and told him to make his silly mind up, stop wasting on other peoples time, and whether or not he wanted to _live,_ or to _die.”_ Benedict told.

“I’m sure they _appreciated_ the _clarification_ …” Elizabeth interjected in a laugh.

Violet looked shocked, but she _was_ smiling.

“Her presence acts the most _extraordinary_ tonic to _any_ situation, so she so claims…” Thomas then felt inclined to add

“Dare I say, that indeed then, we have _been spared_ tonight…” Benedict smiled.

“Oh, I _disagree_ …” Violet smiled, digging her spoon down into the bowl for more broth.

“…If anything those comments only further _fuel_ my desire to meet her…” Violet promises.

“Pity. Yet you’ve been reputed via my wife to have a _decent head_ on those shoulders, Miss Burchroew, _but now.._.” Thomas smiles, falsely sighing and standing down his cordial. Merrily chiding her niavity.

“I have weekly appointments reading books to Lady Philomena Mannering. Sir Thomas. Great Aunt’s, or elderly persons alike thereof _do not scare_ me, I find that they are persons whom I can endure with what everyone likes to deem as, _breath taking, countenance_ on my behalf.” Violet assures. Benedict grinned.

“Well. If it takes a lot to scare you. I’m afraid to say, I estimate Ophelia will _adore_ you when you make her acquaintance…” Thomas smiled lowly.

“And forgive me, I never knew you read to Benedict’s great aunt…” Thomas asks.

“I started the endeavour not long after I met Sir Carlton via you, actually, Sir Thomas…” Violet smiles, flickering her eyes over to Benedict briefly before they landed on the Duke again.

“Lady Mannering and I met at some boring musicale in London, and we got to conversing, and she mentioned that the last poor volunteer who read for her had been unable to stomach her, brusque, temperament, and had quit. And as I was the first person who didn’t flee in tears when she started being her usual self, she offered me the position. To which I gladly accepted. Every Wednesday, we have tea, and read novels or more often than not, she prefers some of the more _verbose_ russian titles…” She smiles.

“I consider myself lucky that me and Ophelia share an unhealthy fascination with Mrs Radcliffe’s novels.” Elizabeth grinned proudly.

“You know, when I sat down, I thought you two ladies to be some of the most pragmatic people I know. But now…” Benedict shook his head, sighing.

“A woman who willingly throws herself into the path of my batty aunt, and the other who admits, aloud, to her eager consumption of Mrs Radcliffe publications. Kenworthy. Your taste in company is _poor..”_ He smirks.

Violet and Elizabeth laughed, and Thomas smiled fondly at them all.

“You’ll never find another pair of women in London like us two, Sir…” Violet promises.

Benedict was looking Violet right in the eyes as he answered, his gaze so affectionate and warm, it shot straight to violet’s heart, and instantly made the beating organ melt to goo in her chest.

“I’d never dare look.” He pledges lowly, smiling.

“If I may be so bold as to enquire, how often have you visited Derbyshire, Sir Carlton?” Elizabeth asked when she stopped laughing.

“Atleast, twice every year _since_ , ...1854, I should think…” He smiled.

“Haven’t been able to shake you _off,_ since then…”

Thomas fake sighed catching his friends eye and smiling like the handsome devil he was.

“You’d be _poorer_ for the loss of my company…”

Benedict assured his friend. Raising a brow in his confident assurance.

“Judith and Edith would certainly miss you. Tell me how does it still stand between you lot?” Thomas asked. 

“Well. Last I saw Judith, she promised me a position on her Pirate Ship.” He offered. “She was then about to charter a voyage to China, I believe. And I was to be her, first mate. On the basis of my understanding that my basic requirements were to do plenty of swabbing, be treated very poorly, drink nothing but a lot of rum, and hold the maps out for her…” Benedict told, making the ladies laugh.

“As it was, Edith was far easier to entertain, I recall we both were reading Charlotte Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre.’ We gabbled the hours away, debating about how literature needed more, strong, empowered female authoresses.” He smirks.

“You’re a supporter of women’s rights, Sir Carlton? I find that somewhat _hard_ to believe…” Violet noted, with an impressed smile and a raise of her brow.

“I support the notion that men and woman should be equal. I believe in human decency. However bizarre it may seem, you know, I’ve always considered women to be… dare I say it, _humans_ , too.” He smiled.

“I wouldn’t think it to look at you, and peg you for a supporter of _such_ a faction.” Violet spoke.

“I’m _full_ of suprises, Miss Burchrowe.” He smiled. Violet flushed a little at that.

Thomas and Elizabeth shared a look. _Hell, something had changed between these two. A month ago they couldn’t even coexist peacefully in the same room, nor fathom a nice word about each other, compared to how they used to snarl and spit nails at the other persons, this was practically ardent flirtation…_

“I say, Sir Thomas, you do keep a excellently stocked wine cellar. I can’t seem to find a decent merlot outside of france to save _my skin…”_ Sir Rupert spoke up, his green eyes daggering across the table to meet Thomas’s own peering orbs.

He swallowed down the resentment when he remembered what Elizabeth told him his intentions were about Iris. He choked back the vile look he wanted to glare at the man. After all, he only paid him a compliment about the wine. _No need to leap up and duel him at dawn on Chatsworths front lawn all for voicing his appreciation for the bouquet of the grape._

Thomas nodded as he smiled.

“I’m glad it’s being enjoyed. But your compliment would be better paid to my wife. She did organise this dinner, after all. I played _no_ part in it.” Thomas leered at the man, his eyes flashing a little dark, and smugly proud, as he saw Sir Ruperts eyes falter, and flicker across to Elizabeth, who gave a curt smile as her response.

“I’m afraid I too, shall have to relay those compliments _elsewhere_ , Sir. Our Butler, Wilkins suggested the wine, and helped me select a choice. I wasn’t in a position to sample the beverage in my condition.” Elizabeth explained.

Sir Rupert inclined his head in a slow nod. Standing his glass back down.

“Such a _ridiculous_ modern notion. Don’t you find sir…”

Caroline spoke up, loud enough for the whole table to hear. But as she spoke, to Rupert, her eyes were glued on Elizabeth.

“Rebuffing a _perfectly_ harmless drink, under the pretence of harming an unborn child. It seems to me to show a sort of, disproportionate, conceited _fussing_ for attention. No more than a _trasclucent ploy_ to be the center of everyones notice.”

Caroline sneered, looking as she ever did when she spat out insults. With the beauty of a siren, but the toxic words of a scaled, taloned, poisonous harpy.

Everyone at the table was not so stupid to misunderstand that insult was meant for Elizabeth.

Elizabeth lowered her soup spoon, the table seemed to quieten a little, and Caroline smiled at her success at seeing her daughter in law glare across at her. Elizabeth saw out of the corner of her eye that Thomas was about to burst and snap something at his mother, but the Duchess nudged him hard in his booted shin with her foot, effectively shutting him up.

“Yes. I recognise it must seem such a _strange and foreign_ notion to you _mustn’t it? Unfathomable, even._ The measures one would go to, to be a _decent_ mother to her children. I know you must be _ever so unfamiliar_ with such a concept, Caroline.” Elizabeth retorted. Eyes shining, proud of her setdown.

"... And I think if anyone sat at this table can be accused of _conceited self absorbance_ , Lady Kenworthy. I think you'll find it _shan't_ originate from _me_. I'll allow you, and you,  _yourself,_ to sustain that _meagre_ pleasure..." The Duchess added. Like a salt in a knife wound. 

The way Carolines lips pursed, and her face tightened, was, in a singular word; _delicious_ , to watch. The Duchess met her stiff look back with a face full of tense, thinly veiled pride.

Violet bit her lip. Edith snorted a laugh into her napkin. And Hugh made no show of biting back, nor hiding his smirk.

“Thomas.” Caroline fairly barked out, commanding her sons attention. Still glaring at Elizabeth before she looked towards him.

“… Did I tell you we’ll need an extra two settings for Dinner tomorrow? I’ve invited Lady Hastings and Anabelle Hastings over to dine with us. Such a _lovely_ girl, and she’s from such a reputable family. So well connected. Lovely _dark hair_ , a _polite_ manner, _Titled._.” Caroline bit out.

Elizabeth should have been more shocked at the woman’s rudeness, but compared to her knowledge of the Countess’s character, and insults she’d been granted in the past, that one was a veritable _kiss_ on the cheek compared to the worst of them.

Thomas met his mother’s eyes. And his glare warned her to relocate her underused decorum. Which she had obviously _misplaced_ , in favour of throwing prickly sharp insults towards his wife.

“Pray, Mother, what is your obsession with Anabelle Hastings? We hardly know her here at Chatsworth ever since you went away?” Thomas pointed out.

“Just that I think they are far more the kind of _class_ and person with whom I feel you should associate more often…” Caroline smiled sweetly.

“If Thomas has any complaints with whom he associates, lady Kenworthy. He is a Duke, after all. _Is he not?_ Surely by now, he would have taken the right mind and precaution to change that?” Sir Farrow spoke up. Raising a silvery brow, the candlelight dancing off his half moon glasses.

“Thomas doesn’t _know_ what is best for him.”

Caroline smiles to the Professor. Mrs Sharpe took this time to level a moody glare at the woman opposite the table.

“Perhaps what is _best_ for him, as records show, isn’t being mothered nor dictated by _you_ …” Mrs Sharpe drawled lowly. 

Hugh Everett then added. “Eighteen years _minus your_ company seemed to have served him well enough.” To which Araminta smiled at the man for supporting her statement with such irrefutable, hard, fact. 

Carolines eyes snapped to his, and it was fairly safe to say she didn’t look pretty with the way she glared at the Reverend.

“Pray, what do you mean by that, Sir?” Caroline asks sharply.

“Nothing at all, Madam. I was merely making a _harmless_ observation.”

Hugh smiled smoothly. His handsome smirk softening the gleaming glare in his eyes. Knowing full well she would never call out a Clergyman, and not at the dinner table either. Edith tried not to snicker sat next to the man, looking down as she idly toyed with her soup spoon in her food.

 _“Killing her with kindness, Reverend?”_ Edith whispers in a smile up to him.

Hugh smiles as he winks back at her.

 _“The best defence is a sweet smile, I find…”_ He offered, he too, whispering.

“I’ll kill her with my _own bible_ in a minute, if she doesn’t shut her foul mouth. _And I’d still get into heaven for it_. I can imagine I’d be _congratulated_ for such a triumph as that.” He smirks.

Edith has to fight _hard_ , biting down her lip not to giggle, loudly at that, too.

Carolines face went taut again. And Elizabeth had to admit, a tiny part of her was _relishing_ how the woman was being buffeted left, right and centre from the people she loved. Toxicity had _no safe resting_ place at this dinner table, _not_ with _their_ family and friends present.

“ _Pray,_ Hugh, tell us, when will your sister be with us? I remember you said she was visiting Derbyshire soon..”

Elizabeth spoke up, diverting the conversation before there was bloodshed, and all before the first course.

Hugh visibly started. He opened his mouth to speak, before shutting it, and swallowing. His eyes met Audley's over the table. And he leaned forwards in his seat, _leering_ , at the Reverend. With malice in his orbs and a glimmer of cruelty dancing in his feline shaped green eyes. .

Hugh was too polite to rebuff her. He knew he had to answer her.   

“I. Uh- mm. Indeed, M’am. She does. She was actually the reason I was late this evening. I was helping her settle into her new lodgings. She has taken a charming cottage in town. Her and my nephew will reside there. She has just taken a job working for the Milliners in town.” He told.

Caroline snorted, looking amused.

“The _milliners. Oh_ , how very _quaint_.”

She patronised to the Earl beside her. Sipping her wine like she was an Empress. Audley's didn't turn to look at her. He was soaking up everything the Reverend had said. 

Hugh glared at Caroline. And made _no show_ of pretending he wasn’t.

Sir Rupert smiled next to her. scoffing laughter.

“I don’t find anything ‘quaint’ about hardworking people who earn a living rather than sponge it off their family. I can't imagine a pastime _more ignoble_ than that, can you Violet?”

Elizabeth remarks to Violet. Loudly. Very obviously directing that barb towards the Dowager.

“The only thing I could think of which is _more immoral,_ would to be to bask in your families peerage title dating back thousands of years and to selfishly squandering a family fortune to suit your own _fetid_ situation and comforts...”

Violet nods to the Duchess, digging a barb at the Earl, whose smile instantly dropped. He had shuddered a sickly smile and a comment of flirtation at her before dinner. _That would teach him to linger his eyeline on the lower half of her bodice, rather than her face._

Rupert levelled her a nasty from his green eyes, Violet sipped her wine, keeping the strong eye contact.

“I’m sorry Hugh, I was _interupted_. I’d no idea you’ve a _nephew_ , how old is he?” Elizabeth smiles down the table.

“His name is Peter, Madam. He is just turning seven this year.” Hugh smiled. “He is, a complete whirlwind of activity, but, he is Margaret’s world, mine too. He is, at present, very taken with steam trains. He is a lovely child. _Every_ inch of him.” Hugh smiled.

He looked across the table to see Rupert smiling. Slouched back far in his seat, looking amused. Cruelly so, at words of his news. 

“How is _dear Margaret?_ Everett?” He smirked.

“Very well.” Hugh answered curtly.

“Her Husband, Robert, is it?” He then added.

“Still overseas.” Hugh informed, looking peturbed still. He was nearly growling at the man.

“ _Heavens._ That must _be hard for_ her, and Peter must miss his Father being away..” Elizabeth predicts.

“Her husband, Robert, is an Engineer. He often gets recruited to build railways in foreign countries. They feel his absence most keenly when he leaves. But they make do. I entertain Peter as best I can.” Hugh informed the Duchess kindly.

“I should adore to meet her, one day. You must bring her over for tea, Peter too. I’m sure we’d all _love_ to meet them.” Elizabeth smiles firmly. Meaning intently, every word.

“I agree. I second that statement, Reverend. I should like to meet your family.” Iris genteely added.

Hugh smiled across at her. His eyes glowing warm.

“I was hoping to introduce you all. I wrote to her, of you… _of you all.”_ He corrected, as he had been getting lost in The glory of Iris’s silvery eyes.

 _“…_ She states I am fortunate and lucky to have such warm hearted friends to associate with. When we were all back in Hampshire, she was _very lonely_ for a time, with Andrew away, it was mostly just us three for one anothers company.” He explained

“Have Margaret name the day, Reverend. We’d all _very_ much wish to make her acquaintance. Help welcome her to this part of the world… There is no greater pain than being lonely and bereft of company.” Thomas smiles kindly.

“You are too kind, Sir. Madam. _Thankyou_.” He smiles in thanks, before his eyes switch to Iris again.

“Will your sister be at Sunday mass tomorrow, Sir? I was planning on attending with Edith and Judith. And I know Elizabeth and Thomas would like to go also…” Iris smiles.

Thomas leaned into his wife.

“ _Were we?”_ He whispers, asking.

“ _We were. Yes_.” Elizabeth smiles sweetly.

Thomas rolls his eyes at her.

"Did I get _a say_ in it?" He asks

"I'm afraid _not_. _You were overruled." S_ he explains.

_"Yes, Dear.”_

He obeyed, sitting back upright in his seat. Switching his eyes over to Benedict. Who smirked evilly, his smile creasing his angular face with mirth.

“Is your wife being _beastly to you, dearest_?” He mocks.

Thomas sighs. Angrily. His jaw grinding together.

“ _Don’t…_ ” Thomas warns.

“After church tomorrow, she’ll take you to town and buy you a _pretty pink bonnet with pink silk ribbons on it_.” Benedict smiles. Enjoying his friends agony.

“I’ll set Ophelia on you…” Thomas warns.

“ _Not right now,_ please. I’m busy having _too much_ fun..” The man grins.

Thomas sips on his cordial. _Glaring._ Tuning back into the conversing that is happening about them at the table.

“….And anyone else in the party, should anyone wish…” Iris spoke up, looking around.

Mrs Sharpe smiled widely,

“ _Oh_. I would adore to attend a morning mass. Our local Reverend near Montague street is _so very dry_ in his deliverence…don’t you think, Dear?” She asked to her husband.

Sir Richard raised his brows.

“I cannot be certain of that Dear heart. I think he talks a little _too slowly_ for your tastes.” Sir Richard offers with a smile.

“ _Oh, Pish_ , Mr Farrow. You only say these things _to vex me_..” She smiles with a roll of her eyes.

“The fact they they are _also true_ , _notwithstanding_.”

Sir Farrow smiles gleefully to Violet and Elizabeth who smile widely, back at him. Luckily he said it out of Mrs Sharpe’s ears’s reach.

“You’re drumming up quite a lot of parishioners for me, Iris. I can only hope my sermon will be up to such a gleaming standard to give you all a false impression of my talent.” Hugh smirks.

“ _Nonsense_. I _very much_ enjoyed the sermon you delivered last week on the Sovereignty of Gods Provision was _beautiful_.” Iris assures him passionately.

Hugh chuckles in embarassment, tinting a little red because of such praise.

“I shall endeavour to dust the cobwebs off my best sermon to please you and your guests, Lady Iris.” Hugh assures.

She beams back at him. widely. And to Hugh, right then, they didn’t need candles. Because to him, her sincere smile lit up the whole room.

Caroline, who had been watching the two, ground her jaw, glared at the happy sight, and thudded her glass down on the tabletop.

“Iris.”

Caroline spoke up. Her voice like the grating of nails on a chalkboard, shattering the warmth and lovely conversation that had happened without her.

“I hope you will not forget you promised a _great deal_ of time to Sir Rupert next week. Afternoon tea, an opera in town, and _two_ more dinners. You will not forget those obligations, _will you?”_ The Dowager leered.

“No. Of course not.” Iris smiles, looking a little resigned and downhearted.

“We have _much_ to look forward too.” Sir Rupert promised with a sickly, dark smile. That _deeply_ unsettled Hugh. 

Iris gave him a meagre smile compared to the one she had given Hugh, The Earl noticed.

“ I cannot believe the Kenworthy name has stooped so _short_ as to make such, _lowly_ , connections..” Caroline offered, in quiet to Sir Rupert next to her.

“They are _more than fortunate_ to have you back to better guide and assist them now, your ladyship.” He smiled back.

“I’m only sorry I wasn’t back in time to stop Thomas wedding that _odious woman_. As it was, as soon as I heard he was planning to wed, I couldn’t seem to get back _fast enough_ to stop it. I had to pay a man to go on in my stead, you know.  _Burke,_ I think his name was. I was lucky enough to hear of him being rejected as her suitor. I came across him in France, when he fled London. I paid him a _more than handsome_ sum to come and interject himself upon Thomas and Elizabeth once more. But, he was a _foul drunk_. He was thrown in prison, so _that was that._   _Money wasted._ Well. I should _never_ have sent a _man_ to do a _woman’s job._ ” She sneered.

“Indeed _not_.” Rupert leered.

“But it was all in vain. The red haired, trollop, has her nails into him. _Foul girl.”_ She snaps, raking a dissaproving gaze over the Duchess.

“She is terribly _stalwart,_ I noticed, especially for a _Professors_ daughter.” He laughs, mockingly. Laughing at her rank.

“Thomas has _indulged_ her, he has let her think she is _deserving_ of the rank their marriage places on her. She is no better than a _peasant._ And worse still, she carries the future heir of chatsworth in her, _unfit,_ body. So now her _lowlife_ blood will be mixed with _ours_.” Caroline shuddered at the notion.

“She has _great beauty_ about her, _certainly.”_

Rupert assessed, his eyes lingering on her amply proportioned bosom in the candelight for a second, before he felt Thomas’s gaze spear him like a knife, so he looked away.

“Yes. But I’m sure she used that all _entirely_ to her advantage _to rope_ my son into marriage.”

“You think their match and marriage was one made in sentimental haste?” Rupert asked.

“Most _definitely_.” Caroline hisses in a strong voice.

“And I shall take every measure whilst I’m here, to make them better see it. In the meantime. I must continue with getting Iris turning her favour towards you, rather than that _worthless, Reverend.”_

She smiles. Cruelly flicking her eyes across the table, seeing that the man in question was laughing with Edith, and the silly younger Farrow sister.

“Sounds like a plan, M’am.” Rupert smiled.

Caroline lifted her chin loftily into the air.

“Indeed it is. And, finally, now Theodore is dead. I’ve no-one to interject on it either.” She grins, looking remarkably pleased with herself.

Violet leaned in to talk to Elizabeth as the staff stepped forwards to clear away the soup dishes, as everyone had now finished. And again, everyones conversations split off into different branches once more.

“I see now what you meant about Thomas’s mother… That woman is _contemptible..”_ She whispered lowly to the Duchess, her face showing how appalled she was by her behavior.

“Want to know the worst thing?” Elizabeth asks glumly.

“There’s _five more courses_ to go, and we’ve only just made it through the _soup._ ”

Comes the Duchesses glum realisation that they would be here to endure _many more comments_ from the woman as of yet. And all before the evening was out.

Violet sighs.

“Oh, _Pish_.” She swares, looking resigned and hateful of such a notion.

"More Wine?"

Elizabeth asks. Violet accepts instantly. Needing to enter a state of utter inebriation if she was to survive through five more, _long,_ courses of food before they could retire. Indeed. being under the influence would make this battlefield of a dinner table _all the more_ palatable.

It is noteworthy that Elizabeth had never _been more jealous_ of Violet in all her life.

 

~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is true, that before consummating his marriage to Elizabeth, that Thomas had never indulged in ‘wanton activities’ such as intercourse. He was too noble and proper to carry on with a mistress. He too was saving his own virtue for after his marriage. He is a firm believer that good things come to those who wait. But as he is close acquaintances to Benedict, and many other gentleman who have numerous mistresses scattered around London. He always kept an open ear to matters of when they discussed, at their gentleman's clubs over a glass of whiskey, how to properly seduce and satisfy a woman. – a fact Elizabeth wholly contests. He even procured a copy of the Kama Sutra to read to study about tantricity with ones bed partner. It should never be said he is not a studious man. It is a wonder Elizabeth did not fall with child a lot sooner, she feels. And she also considers it a miracle they even make it out of bed each day.


	82. ~A Note From Your Author...~

 

 

 Not my questions: 

http://theothercourse.tumblr.com/post/143452762548/fanfic-day-meme

 

 

I was bored. And I filled this in... Here. Get to Know your Author a little. If you like....

(Some hints of spoilers ahead...)

1\. What is your favorite fic you have under your belt?

Gah. Don't make me choose. I can't choose. Today. I would have to say.... Mm. Loving the Handsome Duke of Chatsworth. Tomorrow it will be Agents Provocatrice.

2\. What is your favorite snippet of dialogue?  
  
I don't know why, but I chuckled like a mad lady at this snippet: if it can be explained as to why I found it so funny, it's one I've yet to discover:  
“No. Its quite alright Perkin’s. I’m just being mildly assualted in my own home, But nice to know you value my life to try and come to my defense with the porclain washjug from the spare room.”

3\. What inspired [insert fic]?

Agents Provocatrice? Spectre and the song Extreme Ways by Moby. And the agent provocateur the lingerie shop. (Don't ask me why) Tokyo by lianne la havas for The end of the fic.  
Loving the Handsome Duke of Chatsworth? An audio clip. Crimson peak era. And my raging desire to go back to these times. Oh. And Julia Quinn. Adore her. I've always wanted since reading her first novel to write a world populated with sunny and funny characters in the hearty way she does.  
Ben/Libby series? Every Nancy Meyer film. Ever made.  
The Rose and The Nightingale? Anne Hathaways pixie cut, and the manor in the atonement films. And watching and reading the great gatsby too many times to count. I should have lived in the 20's.  
House of The Crimson Sun? Being Human (UK version) and again, an audio clip. As well as having angry sex with someone who gives insanely sexy love bites from a vampire T - Hiddy whose moody and brooding (who wouldn't want that?)  
Morchambe Park? Where I live the the rolling green countryside. The imitation game. Monuments men and the goddess that is Billie Holliday. And Al Bowlly, 'The very thought of you.' Upstairs, downstairs BBC series too. Every wartime jingle that I bop along too.

4\. Do you prefer writing long or short fics?

Long. Always long. A better flow I find, but, maybe that's just the way I like to write. I admire writers that can do it in a short, packing a punch, quick style. I'm too envious of people who can do that.

5\. What’s your favorite headcanon you use in fics?

Not sure about head canon. But. I'm a sucker for red hair. Always red hair. Red headed people are under appreciated. I feel. And before anyone asks, I am brunette myself. But I want so badly to be red. One day. I think I'll find the courage.

6\. What’s the detail you wait on bated breath for readers to notice?

In chapter four of Agents Provocatrice there features the mention, a name, of a minor character (a hidden gem if you will) that will come to light, and will literally destroy everything later on between 006 and 008 (When I get round to writing the bloody thing) -Ghosts aren't harmless, imagined things. Sometimes they stalk you, hunt you down and demand retribution.

and there are links in most other things... They can be sniffed out. The name of a butler in one fic, is the name of a setting in the other. Boring stuff like that.... Keep em' peeled.

7\. How much do you like symbolism in your fics?

A lot. I wish I was cleverer to be more subtle about it. To plan on writing it in. I never manage to be sly. I don't Plan. I just 'do.'

8\. How often do people catch onto your little details?

When I include them, fairly quickly. Ao3 readers are a savvy bunch.

9.What’s the fic you like the least?

Minx. I wrote it decades ago, and I just cringe reading it back now, knowing my idea was one I so loved, but I think my writing falls short of doing it worthy enough justice.

10\. What would you change if you had it all to do again?

Better flowing conversations. More hearty details and descriptions. I live for reading something in a book, like a description or a similie and just going 'ahhhh that's such a good line...' I have very few "ahhhhhhh" worthy lines. I need more similie-gasms in my stuff.... I think.

11\. What’s a fanfic idea you haven’t done yet?

There's hundreds. Literally. Whomever said the writers mind is not constantly thinking, is wrong, I'm always day dreaming scenarios in my head. Chapters I haven't written. Songs which make me think if certain scenes that I play over again on loop in my head. Whomever said writers switch off, I want my money back. I think my brain is the opposite. I never switch off. I'm never not thinking about writing. (Except when I'm drawing) top three at present are:

\- Austen Era (Regency) JJ Fields/OFC where he is a clergyman trying to save the girl he's always loved from falling off his scandalous brother. (Inspiration: Northanger Abbey)  
-Hollow Crown fic. Reader being in the kings court, finding prince Hal odious at first, but eventually falling in love with him and becoming his queen. ( I melted swing Tom as Hal. Henry VI is my undying favourite)  
-a plot similar to the holiday, two friends switch houses, across opposite sides of the Atlantic, and end up finding love. (JJ fields one, Tom the other) two separate stories done from the viewpoint of the women with whom they fall in love.

  
12\. What’s the hardest thing to write for you?

Intimacy/romance scenes. I'm not affected personally by them in any way. But I have to visualise it, whose hands are where, where lips and mouths are, it's an exhausting way to write. But. I persevere. It eventually comes together.

13\. Do you have a favorite character(s) to write for?

Yes. And I shouldn't. But I do. I have 4:

1\. JJ in B/L series. (Originally, I was never going to even have him and Libs hook up. He grew on me. And I adore it) I've got such a soft spot for him. I think I forgot who I was writing the entire story for. He is the 'what if' soulmate.  
2\. Elizabeth Miller from Morchambe Park. One of my underdog stories. I love her. She is plucky, headstrong and she is so unlike me, and every good thing I aspire to be as a person.  
3\. Frost. As more is written of her. The more I love her too. She may seem a frigid ice bitch queen robot, but, again. Her past has shaped her into what she is. So it's not surprising. She is way more emotionally involved than she may seem. But she's not frail, She's stronger than she seems. And tougher than old boots. Frost treads a very fine balance every day. She treads The line between the potential to be very good, and the opportunity to be the worst most dangerous weapon in the world. That's why I love her. She stays a stranger to everyone she meets. But she packs a hell of a punch.  
4\. Judith Thatcher Kenworthy. Every sentence from her mouth is a delight. She will always be the one who asks the most Inapt questions. And is the light of her families lives. And will continue to be for as long as I am writing her.

Every character I love. Even the evil ones. Negative people are so fun to write. And positive ones are even lovelier. I love each character. Minor or not. They all come from the warped depths of my over active imagination.

14\. Give us a snippet of something from your WiPs!

He wound his way around the bookshelf that stood in the centre of the first room, manoeuvring himself into the second room, to see Her, stood with her back to him, her head bowed, scanning over the bookshelf as she looked for a book. Her body looked taut and rigid. Stiff with anger from her encounter.


	83. Sermons, Sisters and Jam...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry its been so long! I have missed writing this, its like coming home to an old friend... enjoy... and I'm pleased to say that more is coming....

 

~ A Duchesses Gown ~ (I couldn't resist)

After suffering through the agonies of a terse family dinner, surprisingly, the next morning dawned bright and clear, and everyone in Chatsworth was arisen out of their beds to see it. It was a bright, and chilly Sunday morning, and the house was abuzz, both upstairs and down. The staff, as ever, were up as soon as it got light to serve another day to the splendours of the grand house, fires stoked, the stove fired up in preparation for lunch, the horses groomed, the carriage prepared and the gardeners were already taking to their beds to manicure the lawns to perfection. Above stairs however, would see no languid Sunday for the family, for everyone was up and putting on their Sunday best in preparation to make haste to Chatsworth chapel to hear morning mass from Reverend Everett, though some were excluding themselves from the party, namely Richard Farrow, who confessed a keen longing to make use of the library in the east wing. Araminta, had, of course chided him over such a blasphemous nature, but he thought little of it, and thus, with a kiss to his frazzled wife's cheek, he was off, merrily smiling and perfectly contended to lose himself amongst the sturdy company of books and volumes for a while. There was also no stirring from Caroline Kenworthy's chambers either, but, no one dared bother to seek her company to come to church.

Remarkably, Elizabeth and Thomas were among the first people to arise, and subsequently find they are handed the task of herding everyone out of the door and into the waiting carriages, lest they become severely and rudely late. Finally, everyone bundles inelegantly into the barouche and they are blissfully able to set off, a little ragged round the edges for their early morning start, as Edith had to make do with hastily folding her unkempt hair up into a messy chignon in the moving coach, and Elizabeth had to do some serious fussing with her husbands cravat as his sleepy eyes and hands had not seen fit to presume how wonky it was. To which Thomas replied with a debonair grin,

“Any excuse to touch me? _Hm_ my love?” Thomas grins to his wife, who gives him a stony smile as a response.

Iris, and Edith, seated on the opposite bench smile widely at the two. Months into their marriage now and still as besotted and smitten with each other like newlyweds who’d only had the brief joy of being married for no more than a few hours.

“You are becoming dangerous to even sit near in a moving coach, Sir Thomas Kenworthy…” Elizabeth smiles.

“I’m afraid, dear wife, I’ve _always_ held that _wicked_ honour.” He smiles back wittily.

“I wonder what topic the Reverends sermon will be based on this morning?”

Elizabeth asked aloud _, a little too loudly_ , to her relatives opposite, in order to move the conversation away from shadowy, inappropriate corners not deemed fit for consumption by a debutante and the five year old adjacent to the both of them with a mind like a sponge. She relaxed back into her seat, folding her skirts out below her so they sat prettily folded, and awarded her no distress.

“He did say at dinner last night that he would have to search high and low for a powerful sermon with which to impress the lord of the manor..” Edith smiled.

Thomas smiled back at his niece.

“I feel somewhat awful…” Iris suddenly spoke aloud, softly.

Elizabeth looked vicarious towards her, her face creased in somewhat careful curious empathy.

“Whatever for?” Elizabeth asks.

“We should have woken our mother to come with us, do you not think? She always did go to church on Sundays after all. She would be _so affronted_ in our going without her…” Iris fretted.

Though, true to the humble woman's errant streak of humility and kindness, she missed how all the relatives in the carriage around her, winced at the notion of having invited the dowager countess along with them on their outing.

“I imagine she must be tired after hurling all those insults across the dinner table at everyone last night…” Edith mumbles grumpily.

“Edith.” Iris tried to chide in a not-at-all stern manner.

Edith crossed her arms and glared out of the coach window, picking idly at a loose thread on her long white skirts.

Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek, and examined her shoes so as to keep the insult she had brewing against Caroline, firmly enclosed in her mouth, so that it too didn’t tumble out and offend Iris. Who always, she was proving, thought well of everyone. Even toward the woman who was signing away her happiness toward a ghastly, but rich and titled suitor.

“Is Granny staying for long?”

Came a little outburst from Judith who sat innocently swinging her legs of the velvet bench. Blinking her big innocent blue eyes up at her mother whom she was wedged next to in the coach. Her face shrouded by her frilly blue bonnet, big buttery curls of blonde hair swinging down into the oath of her eyes.

“We do not know, poppet.” Elizabeth answers her little niece.

Judith’s face fell lightly. She too, clearly irked at the confirmation that the ‘mad lady’ who plagues her nightmares was due to stay for an indeterminable amount of time.

“I think she should go home now.” Judith muttered, as she plucked at the buttons on her little powder blue overcoat.

Not you too Judith..” Iris sighs.

“She has a point, Iris.” Thomas projected softly. His eyes met his sisters as their bodies rolled and rocked over the bumps and ruts of the road.

“The woman brings trouble, misery and disharmony in her wake Iris. It is the only _sure thing_ about her. That and the huge list of unpaid expenses she tots up, carelessly, only to be rectified by someone else's pocket. ” Thomas tried to point out.

“Nonetheless, Thomas, she is our mother. The woman who raised us, clothed us, fed us during our childhood. And whilst you may dismiss her, I will not. She is family. That stands for something, does it not?”

Thomas swallowed. Bitter silence that had fallen on the coach indicating his twin was right. She was, _irritatingly_ , correct. He _could not_ , as a Victorian nobleman _and a_ gentleman, turn his back on family ties and obligations. To do so was paramount to the strongest brand of shame and disgrace one could ever imagine possible. His curse, in this situation, was to be the gallant Duke in this state of sorry affairs. The duty he had no choice but to bear came along with the title, his position as lord of the manner, a member of nobility, and being a magistrate of Derbyshire, his home. These were his ignorable requirements. And Iris was making it plain that so long as his mother haunted Chatsworth's halls like a vile harpy, that she was to be accommodated and received by her family. His hand was forced. And if there was one thing he detested, it was being backed into a corner, and being forced to accommodate things that made his blood pressure peak to dangerous levels. Alas, this torrid affair with his mother, was exactly that. And he detested it. And with each new spec of horrors from Redsmith, he hated it more. Which, he didn’t think was possible by any measure

He was saved from the misery creeping in on his mood by his wife, who saw the resigned, strained look in his eyes, and twined her fingers through his own. Her thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of his hand. He twisted his head round to look at her, as she gave him a bolstering smile. inaudibly letting him know that they would bear this burden together.

“Why don’t we all put our minds to happier things?” Elizabeth asked to the sullen carriage before them.

Iris smiled. As did Edith. Knowing she was right. There were too many glorious things in the world to let be swept under the rug all due to the dread of one awful woman.

“Judith. Did you know Mrs Elmstone told me this morning that she has peaches and strawberries growing in the greenhouses? And that she has also promised to make some jam for all of us. What a fine treat that would be on a picnic? Do you not think?” Elizabeth smiles. Coaxing out Judith's merry excitement would make anyone's mood go from sour to sweet in under a second.

“Strawberries and peaches..” Judith smiled merrily.

“Elmstone makes the best jam in the entire country. Iris do you remember we always used to try and steal jars of it when we were young…”

Thomas grins. Elizabeth smiled wider on seeing him recount such a sunny memory. The light glistened from his exultant eyes as he smiled in happiness. This was the Thomas she wanted to see, eyes full of life and his body bursting with laughter. She hated the times when his face looked gaunt and pale, straining under the heft of coping with his wretched mother, hating having to witness those heavy dark bags make his face age in misery. She much preferred this Thomas. The merry, incalculably handsome, impossibly radiant and handsome, good natured man she fell in love with. The man whose fine eyes make her melt In the glistening glory, whose smile rendered her unbearably happy. The man she fell head over heels in love for.

“Father found it hilarious when we tried to dismiss about stealing it when the evidence was all over our mouths.” Iris laughed.

“Your mother always used to wimp out, and I’d be left all on my own, risking life and limb, and a whack across the ear from Elmstone, in order trying to pilfer full jam jars from the top shelf of the dresser. It required extreme skill and grace.” Thomas smiles.

“I didn’t want to get in trouble. And what about when you ate nearly an entire jar all on your own? You were sick for a day and well into the next one because of it. That put you off, albeit however briefly.” Iris explained.

Thomas chuckled.

“I cannot imagine you ever doing something as discourteous as that, mother?” Edith grins, shocked at such a scandalous tale in which Iris played the supporting role.

“Oh, she was _a hellion_ when she was at a young age. Until she decided to grow up and become _boring_.” Thomas winked at his eldest niece who laughed.

“You _watch it_. Kenworthy. When you become a parent you’ll find there is no room in life for childish ways when you have a new born to contend with. It forces you to mature awfully fast. You’ll see.” Iris warned with a smile on her lips, aswell as mirrored in her jovial grey eyes.

“The New Testament.” Edith spoke up.

“[First Epistle to the Corinthians](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Epistle_to_the_Corinthians), Chapter 13, Verse 11. ‘ _When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things._ ” She quoted with supreme accuracy in her even tone.

“Those tutoring lessons with the Reverend are paying off I see, I’m impressed Edie.” Thomas smiled.

“They come in excellent use when I am to lecture my childish uncle..” She grinned, laughing at the end of her words.

Thomas glared, though smiling still.

“ _Pest_.” He hissed to his niece.

“A very well read, and literate pest. You’ve been firmly put in your place, Mr K.” Elizabeth smiles lowly, joining in on the jocund bullying.

“Left, right and centre. The lord has no mercy upon poor men being hemmed in by their cruel women folk.” Thomas whines.

“Well. Pray for a son and then perhaps you can win every once in a while.” His wife smiles.

“I pray daily, my love.” He assures.

“Now, _that_ , the Reverend will be pleased to hear.”

Iris smiled. Looking out of the window to see they were now turning down the dead end track to Chatsworth Chapel. Where they could see crowds, men and women, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, some walking in groups, merry parties, all clad in their best frocks and hats, arm in arm, or in large groups, heading into the small beige Cotswold brick edifice that was the not overly large, but not entirely tiny chapel, nestled toward the southwest of the Chatsworth estate. Really, the family could have walked here – were they not so late. The pleasant little chapel seemed to hum in the morning rays of the sun that broke over the trees. Catching the brilliantly sweet and fragrant honeysuckle which lined to stone path leading to the double doors, pulled wide open for the parishioners to make their way in, and to take a seat. Aswell as the warming days breeze that fluttered along the path, that too wanted to be let in, the one that ruffled hats and skirts, sweeping its way over the crowds of people. Elizabeth caught sight of Reverend Everett welcoming people as they came to the doors, shaking hands and greeting everyone with his handsome smile and the warmth and friendliness that seeped out of his every word, movement, and expression. He looked formal and appropriate in his white collar cravat, and stark black swallow tailed coat, under which he wore his a thigh length black jacket and breeches with his black boots. His hands were free of any bible or holy book so he could better shake hands and fully welcome his parishioners.

The Duchess of Chatsworth then looked across the Kenworthy carriage to see that Iris too was looking in the Reverends direction, with a look of genial admiration and affection on her face. Contented just to bask in the warm glow of the man, she was sure, she was growing to admire most keenly. Of course, she could deny her affections night and day, should she wish, but she could not hide the fondness she held for him. No one could hide such love, Elizabeth fancied. She caught Edith’s eye, who had noticed it too, and both niece and aunt shared a secretive wink toward one another. They were not so unwise as to mistake regard deeper than mere friendship when they saw it.

And with that, the carriage rolled to a stop, and all the Kenworthy's (and Thatcher Kenworthy's) began their descent from the carriage to hear the excellent sermon Hugh had promised to preach.

 

~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas, Elizabeth, and Edith, have a pool going on how long it will take Iris and Hugh to admit their tendré for one another. Thomas bets by the end of the year. Elizabeth bets on two months time in July. And Edith hedges her bets that it will be sometime in the next three weeks. And, Judith, not quite clued in on how bets work, insists that they will be together by tomorrow tea time.


	84. Hope, Mystery's and Longing...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want to guess the identity of our two mystery figures? no? dig deep. They've been mentioned, I promise...

 

~ Mystery Woman ~

~ Mystery Boy ~

 

The merry party made their way along to the chapel, greeted by Hugh Everett’s warm smile. The Kenworthy clan, these days were flanked by Elizabeth’s mother-in-law, her best friend, Violet Burchrowe, all of the Thatcher Kenworthy ladies, and one Mr Carlton. Iris and Judith lead the party, flanked by Edith and Elizabeth, who in turn are followed by Violet and Benedict, with Thomas offering his arm to Araminta Sharpe bringing up the rear of the group. Judith tugged excitedly on her mothers hand, straining, chomping at the proverbial bit to move closer to the Reverend, Whom Iris awkwardly stumbles too, red cheeked offering Hugh a pleasant morning.

“Good morning Judith, Lady Iris.” Hugh smiles warmly, his eyes glittering and his smile as handsome as any ancient greek god. It creased wider on seeing Iris and Judith, Elizabeth and Edith were sure of it.

“Good morning, Reverend.” Judith bows, grinning, and stooping low into a little bob of a curtsey.

“It certainly is Miss Judith.” Hugh smiled, before his eyes swept up and caught Iris’s.

“It certainly is.”

He repeated softly, smiling genially at the woman opposite him. Unable to help how his smile grew warmer, and his eyes grew fonder as he shared a slow smile with Iris. Who, by now, she was sure, her cheeks were redder than any crimson rose petal.

“May I also take this time to thankyou most graciously for my invite to your dinner last night. It was magnificent of you to include me in your family gathering. I was very humbled and honoured to be involved with such a warm, lively family.” He smiles.

“It was our pleasure sir. I hope my mother’s interjections didn’t prove too trying toward you.” She spoke slowly, her voice drowned in hope, and sorrow.

“Not too trying at all. My Lady. Rarely does a Reverend of my calibre get to break out such rebuffs in response to such a reproving character.” He smiles.

Iris smiles.

“Please. No titles are necessary, Reverend. You may of course call me Iris.” She offers.

“Then allow me to suggest dropping Reverend from mine. Please, I know you well enough now for you to call me Hugh.” He insists.

“Well. Hugh. We are very… _excited_ … for this sermon, aren’t we Judith?” Iris asks to her auspicious five year old.

“Very. But what’s a sermon?” She adds.

“I’ll explain once we get inside. Good day Hugh.” Iris smiles, moving in towards the church with her youngest. Just when her eldest and Elizabeth come to the Reverend, and he greets the both of them aswell.

“Lady Elizabeth, Lady Edith. A pleasure, as always.” He smiles in greeting.

“Good Morning. And, If I may, Reverend, may I ask after the topic of today’s sermon?” Edith smiles

“A good Reverend never writes and tells.” He teased.

“Is that allowed? By a man of the cloth no less?” Elizabeth asks in a lighthearted manner.

“Incredibly. I do have some divine luck on my side.” Hugh promised with a wicked smile that was too handsome and cunning to be bestowed on a clergyman.

“That’s cheating. _Rev_.”

Elizabeth smiled cheekily as she and Edith moved past him and swept inside the cool, somewhat darker chapel to join Iris and Judith who’d walked ahead of them.

Hugh bid good morning to Miss Burchrowe and Mr Calrton, who met with smiles and an equally as warm greeting. Then Hugh bowed gently to Thomas and Araminta as they drew near. Elizabeth wasn’t close enough to hear the specifics, but she was willing to venture that Thomas was growing quickly tired of the mother-in-law who was nattering his ear off. And had been ever since he offered his arm to help her down from the coach. As Hugh offered The lord of the land a _‘Good Morning’_ she distinctly heard Thomas smile a pained _‘Is it?’_ through clenched teeth and a exhausted grin.  Her stepmother truly had remarkable talents. For she'd only been on his arm for _two_ seconds. 

Elizabeth waits for her husband who is gleefully unloaded from Mrs Sharpe as they enter the chapel, the family making their way towards their pews at the front, smiling and bidding good morning to the parishioners around them. Some were renters on Chatsworth’s land, some were middle class families, others were titled. There was a whole mixture of people present for today’s sunday mass. And the Kenworthy’s bid polite and friendly hello’s to all they knew.

Tenants, associates and fellow members of the gentry, all that sat murmering amongst themselves on the chapel pews, watched as the beautiful family humbly and quickly took their seats on the front two rows on the right side. The humble, gentle and demure, raven haired Iris Thatchter Kenworthy, how sad it was that she was widowed so young, and left with her two beautiful girls. The booky, polite Edith and the energetic, humourous butterball that was Judith. And then there was the newly wedded Duke, as handsome and tall as the man was kind, and he was a giant, a powerful god of a gentleman. Dark haired, dashing, fair and overly generous. And, his new Duchess, everyone was sure, would bring them a child that was as beautiful as heaven itself, with their blue eyes, and eother of their colouring, there was no doubt that the baby to be blessed into the Kenworthy clan, would be of a most angelic looking nature in appearance. There was no doubt it would be a gorgeous baby, and no less. Because the flame haired bride Thomas has chosen was, they were sure, a saint. Kind, always genial and as fair as her husband, she would make an excellent mother when the time came for her to be so.

Behind the Duchess, was her close acquantance from London, a waify but exceedingly pretty girl, With walnut coloured curls of hair, and hazelnut hued eyes shaped like almonds. Next to her was a striking, rogue like, looking gentleman, who was rumoured to be very closely linked to the Kenworthy family, A gentleman of high class and rank. Going by his dress and his manner, Mr Calrton, reputed to be a debonair ladies man, an about town rake, feared by all london Mama’s worth their salt. Best friend to the Duke and likely soon, to inherit his father’s title of Earl of Herefordshire. But who seemed exceedingly pleased and a little more demure and less overconfident in talking and smiling to Miss Burchowe who stood next to him. And then there was the elder woman, believed and rumoured to be Miss Elizabeth’s stepmother. Her faded, mature looks, suggest she was a beauty in her youth, and she is rumoured to be an eager gossip. With greying hair, but always properly presentable, Mrs Sharpe, followed behind her daughter with a pleased smile, as she surveys the beauty of her daughters new family, and the niceties of her stepdaughters new home, and all the new characters she had met in along the way as her brief time serving the title of the Duchess of Chatsworth.

Elizabeth is reunited with her husband as they take their seats on the pew, Thomas on the far end, Elizabeth next to him, Iris next to her, and Edith and Judith sat is ascending order of age next to their mother. Thomas took this time to lean over and whisper quietly into his wifes ear, as he had caught sight of the woman and child adjacent to them on the left front pew of the chapel. A woman who busied herself fretting with her young childs pressed collar as he sat and welcomed his mothers fussing with a quiet obedience and an ancient look of boredom in his eyes and his posture. Thomas took the strangers in with a calculative sweep of his eyes before he leaned into his wife.

“Who do you suppose is that woman on the pew opposite, I’ve never seen her before, dear, have you?”

He asked. Because if anyone would know about it, it would be his wife. Who gossiped with the maids, and, everyone with a fully working brain, know that people who gossip with their the maids knew everything, because in turn the maids did know _everything._ They could get rid of the armies of men and spies devoted to protecting Britains secret intelligence, a fleet of young housemaids could do the whole job quite servicably with not a single spec of room for improvement.

Elizabeth smiled at her husbands words, and also how it felt to have him so scandalously close, whispering into her ear, his breath rolling invitingly down her neck made her skin prickle and flush all at the same time.

“Never thought I’d see the day. The right honourable Duke of Chatsworth bowing to petty shreds of gossip.” His wife smiled back at him. Seeing this earned her a stern, heated look from her husband.

“I’ll give you a right honourable reprove for that, _later_.” He promises hotly.

“Careful, blasphemy, in a chapel. You’re lucky yet that lightning hasn’t struck you from the rumbling grey heavens.”

She warns. Before she too turns and surveys the stranger and the boy of whom he spoke. Because Thomas remembered almost everyone he met, it was intriguing to think he did not know someone. Hich boiled down to, ultimately, the fact that they were new faces to this part of the world.

Elizabeth, trained and exceedingly skilled after all her years of looking hopelessly across packed ballroom crowds as a debutante, is able to take the woman and the boy in with one, swift, conclusive stroke of her eyes.

“She is certainly a _most beautiful_ woman.” Elizabeth confesses quietly. Because she could not deny the womans beauty was radiant, but soft. A little like Iris’s. The sort of beauty that was even and fair. However, It was the most indulgent form of beauty, because it was one that rendered people, after one look, to _never_ wish to avert their gaze again.

The woman in question to the Duke and Duchess, wore dark coloured clothing. Namely, a dark purple wool gown, with a grey overcoat, and Elizabeth could see that a large, round black day hat was nestled to slope into her lap. Her hair was artlessly styled into a servicable bun, of which her hair was a deep and rich shade of rusty brown. She wore delicate and small elegant earrings in her ears, enough to tell the Duchess that they were worn to boast of sentiment, and not wealth. Her features, as she had said, were full and forgiving in their looks. A gentle upturned nose, with a full mouth pulled down into a straight line, as if she had known great grief and had grown tight lipped in keeping to herself. Her eyelashed were fair, and from as far away as she was, Elizabeth noted her eyes were a minty blue, not quite green, and not fully blue were they either. They sat on the fence somewhere in between, lighting up her pale skinned face. The boy next to her, was clearly her own. For he had the same eyes, and the pale skin of his mother. His hair was a different shade, however, it was darker, a shade of unforgiving black. Combed neatly into place on his head. He wore a smart pressed to prefection jacket and shirt, with knee socks and smart leather shoes and grey shorts on his legs. Who looked to be no more than eight or nine years old. And he too, like his mother sat quietly and patiently, waiting for the sermon to begin.

One thing that struck Elizabeth though, about the pairs clothes, were that they were intended for much colder climates. The mothers dress was a thick, unyielding wool, and come the summer heat of Derbyshire, would be unbearable to dress oneself in. And the boy too, his grey suit was a tweed wool, and intended for a much colder atmosphere. There was something though, in the mother and the boy seperately, that Elizabeth could not place. She felt as if she had seen the woman’s eyes before, and the boys too. They seemed distantly familiar to her somehow. But, she blamed any misgivings about strangers down to her odd hormones and blamed her baby for that.

The Reverend swept his humble way down the chapel’s aisle, and took his place at the pulpit. Ready to begin his sermon, wishing his parishioners a good morning before he began to speak. Elizabeth leaned to her left, to whisper gently to Iris as they all rose to sing the first hymn.

“Is that woman familiar to you, Iris? I feel I’ve seen her before, but I cannot for my life, place her. Can you?” She kindly asks her sister in law.

Iris turned and took a quick peek, as mother and son stood and sang the hymn, softly and accordingly. With the same obedience and quiet nature in which they had waited for the mass to begin.

“The eyes. Her eyes seem very memoerable to me. It’s as if I’ve seen them before. The same goes for the boy. His manner is alike someone I know, but cannot place.” She offers quietly.

“Though she is very pretty, and the boy is certainly handsome. I cannot think…” She offers.

“Nor I…” Elizabeth concludes.

“Maybe we will make her aqquaintance after mass has ended? I know there are a couple of cottages up for rent near the buckley’s. Perhaps her and her son reside in those? And this is the closest parish and parsonage after all.” Iris supposed.

Elizabeth shook her head.

“I hate to correct you, but those two cottages were taken just last week. One by a family of four, and the other by a middle aged man and wife. I met them all on the tenants round with Thomas when we went visiting with welcoming gifts, I’m afraid they belong to neither household.” She explained.

“Curiouser, and Curiouser…” Iris smiles, before both women lean round and examine the pair again. Of course, iris was humble, but she adored sleuth novels and could never resist a good, juicy mystery. Especially not when it was plonked right down, only a pew away from her very self.

“Our plot doth thicken...” Elizabeth supposed.

There came a sudden whisper, harshy interjected from Elizabeth’s side, or more accurately, from Elizabeth’s husband.

“When you two gasbagging hens have _quite_ finished…” Thomas smiled wryly.

As if on que, the organ music stopped, and there was a wall of sound, lasting only a second, of rustling skirts and bodies hitting benches as everyone sat to take in the sermon they had all been assured would be of a high standard for which to impress the Lord and Lady of the manor.

“Today’s sermon shall be from the Scripture: Hebrews, chapter 6, verses 17-20. And it teaches us about hope. As we live in changing times, and new emerging technologies seek to change our every waking day, we are left with hope. If ever there was a time when we need to heed Paul’s warning not to be “…tossed back and forth by the waves, and blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of men in their deceitful scheming” (Ephesians 4: 14), it is today. What we all need if we are to withstand the spiritual winds, which are howling about us, is a real sense of stability. We need spiritual mooring. We need something solid and firm to hold on to. It is that which the writer to the Hebrews is setting forth in our text when he writes of an anchor for the soul. This is the only time in the Bible where the anchor is used as an illustration of what we need in the way of help in life.  The anchor, which is here spoken of, is the hope, which we are given in Christ Jesus our Lord. We want to consider this illustrative picture set forth by the Apostle under the theme: Hope; the anchor of the soul…” The Reverend spoke calmly, and resolutely to his parishioners.

Elizabeth smiled at the merry picture, and the fact that almost after every single time he spoke the word, ‘hope’ his eyes lingered briefly on the front pew where they sat. His eyes lingering if only for the briefest of seconds, upon Iris. Who took in the sermon being preached with the slope of her radiant smile, beguiled by Hugh’s divine words.

“We have all to face of those questions and possibilities in the light of the personal question posed by the words of the beautiful, old hymn: “ _Will your anchor hold in the storms of life, when the clouds unfold their wings of strife? When the strong tides lift, and the cables strain, will your anchor drift, or firm remain?”_ By the Grace of God, the answer of the child of God comes: _“ We have an anchor that keeps the soul, steadfast and sure while the billows roll, fastened to the Rock which cannot move, grounded firm and deep in the Savior’s love.”_ We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure, says the Scripture. Let the winds blow. Let the waves surge. Let the questions fly. Let the threats come. Let the world speed on.  We have an anchor! We have a hope! We have stability here and now and eternity guaranteed in Christ Jesus our Lord. We are grounded firm and deep in the Savior’s love. _Amen”_

The latter was repeated in a low murmur before everyone stood again to sing another hymn. Elizabeth smiled, touched by his sermon, as she sang the hymn with her family. Her hand sneaking down to join with her husbands. Letting him know everything, in the end would be alright. Before she looked to the Reverend, and then to Iris. Knowing that there was trouble brewing on Chatsworth’s horizon. When shadowy doubt and trouble lurked in every gilded doorway, darkening spirits, and fronting nightmares, there seemed no reprieve. But, Elizabeth thought, to counter it, there _would be, there would always_ be, hope

Hugh was right. It truly was a great sermon.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth, has never once, been to the seaside. Of course, she has read about it in numerous books, but never, herself in person has she visited. A matter Thomas wholly intends to rectify before their first child is born. He has not told Elizabeth of this yet, but he owns a small cottage nestled into the hillside on the Devonshire coastline. He did intend to whisk her away there for two weeks, but Caroline’s abrupt appearance back into their lives rudely interrupted his plans to do so.


	85. Mrs McMurray, Swollen Ankles, and Clever, Clever, Wives...

 

~

 

After it was over, Elizabeth gladly stepped outside to get some air, it was a small chapel. It could tend to get on the stuffier side of things with most of the tenants and half of Castleton squeezed inside it. She was happy to slip away and let Thomas mingle with the people he rented his land too. She paid weekly visits to all of them, so she was well informed of all the gossip which was rife through every household, and she was gaily regaled with the tales of such on her visits. She knew that Church on Sunday’s was not just a routine, it was a social whirl aswell as a religious gathering, all combined into one. She took a little stroll along, admiring the honeysuckle that lined the grey pebbled path to the chapel doors. She daintily took one into her hands, admiring it in all its raw glory. Leaning down she sniffed gently, letting the perfumed, sickly sweet fragrance fill her senses.

She didn’t realize she had been joined, until a little voice broke the sound of nature carrying on around her. Above the birds singing, the wind fussing the treetops and the sound of the river trickling through the leaf filled green glade just past the meadow where the parsonage sat, there came a small boy’s voice.

“My Gam used to call them natures trumpets…” Insisted the little voice. Which spoke with a gently intoned Scottish accent.

Elizabeth turned to the side, her hand still on the flower, to see an unfamiliar boy stood not too far away from her. It was the boy sat on the first pew with the woman, both of whom Elizabeth didn’t recognize. He was fairly tall for his age, and she noted he looked about seven or eight by her best guess. He had pallid, milk bottle skin that instantly told her he didn’t indulge in spending a lot of time out of doors in the sunshine, his wild looking hair was as black as midnight, much like her husbands, whose own hair looked as black as writing ink - even in dim light, but like burnt ember in the sun sometimes. There had been an attempt, due to his mother, she _just_ knows, who had ruthlessly raked a comb through it, and oiled it, to settle it into a neatly divided parting on his scalp. And his eyes, still retained a slightly babyish air to them, in the way they seemed slightly too large set in his small ashen face. They looked like cats eyes, Elizabeth noticed, a piercing shade of moss green, which twinkled their boy-like innocency back at her.

“That’s right.” Elizabeth smiled kindly as she stood to her full height. “My own mother used to tell me they meant _‘the bond of love.’_ ” She smiled.

The boy shuffled lightly on his feet, smiling a sideways smile, looking uneasy at addressing a pretty – but perfect stranger.

“Did I detect a slight Scottish accent on your voice?” She probed gently.

The boy looked up at her, perhaps a little less shyly now. And then he nodded.

“You wouldn’t happen to speak any Gaelic now? By chance?” She smiles.

 _“_ _Suim b-beag bìodach..”_ He uttered hesitantly. Which was Gaelic for _‘A tiny amount.’_

“My father taught me...” He confessed quietly. “He’s from Arbroath.” He added quickly.

“Ah.” Elizabeth smiled “Scottish to the bone and blood, then.”

 _“Bhruidhinn thu glè fhileanta.”_ She answered. ‘ _You speak very fluently’_

He blushed a little at her complimenting him.

“I myself have a Scottish uncle, and many _, many_ , Scottish cousins. Though they all come from near Pitlochry, on Loch Kinloch Rannoch, Clan McKurick, and each of them as mad, and as Scottish as the other.”

She explained. Thinking momentarily of her Uncle Fergus, and the enormous patriotic spirit of her brawny, intimidatingly tall and strapping, redheaded, rather mad, Scottish cousins. They were as exuberant as the day was bright, especially after a few cups of Rhenish or Whiskey in their bellies. But they were harmless, if stubborn and incredibly loyal to their clan and their country.

“My father took me near to Pitlochry once. Though he’s no part of a clan, he’s only got my Gam for his clan, which he says is plenty enough for him.”

“What’s your father’s Scottish surname then?” Elizabeth asked.

“Robert. Robert McMurray.” He answered, his Scottish twang as strong as ever.

“And a very _gallant_ Scottish name it is…” She admired.

He shuffled again, scuffing the sole of one shoe against the other as he stood, counting the gravel under his toes.

“Have you been in Derbyshire long?” She asks.

“No’ particularly.” He answered short and quickly.

“..And are you liking it in this part of the world so far?”

She asked, having a distinct feeling this conversation was mostly becoming one sided, _not_ that she minded. She hadn’t been particularly proficient in mastering the art of conversation at his age either, she had been a shy wallflower, finding more friends and company in the pages of books, than anywhere else.

“It’s much warmer than up north. We used to live near Cumbria, It was dreadful cold all year round. It looks much nicer here…”

He insisted, looking around him at the lush greenery, and the sun chipping through the few clouds in the sky, and the warm breeze ruffling the grass of the Chapel yard.

“Oh, it is. Though I’ve never been to Cumbria, but, if it’s anything like London. Seeing a blue sky, or emerald grass of a day rather than grey smoke and fog, I know which one I’d _rather_ look upon. I like in the summer going for walks in the evening, the smell of sun baked grass, rain soaked trees, and fresh wet mud. To my, city living mind and having lived in London for four and twenty _long_ years, there’s _nothing nicer_ …” She smiled.

He smiled at her vivid description.

“Do you think you’ll be happier here, than in Cumbria then?” Elizabeth asked him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but more crunching gravel from the church doors reminded them they were not alone. They looked back to the church to see a woman hiking up her skirts and walking with quick strides towards the boy. The short clipped shout of his name, led Elizabeth to know that there was no mistaking her for his mother.

“Peter!” She chided, her face unimpressed as she drew close, to stand by the boy and berate him, holding back, as there was a stranger present.

“What did I tell you about wandering off like that? You damn near gave me a fright.” She admonished reaching out to lovingly caress his hair. Though her son spoke with a Scottish twang to his voice, Elizabeth detected no Celtic brogue in her tone as she spoke. The boy, Peter, moved his head from her touch. Gone was the antagonism on her face now, it was replaced with a caring frown. And an erstwhile, and lasting expression of sadness gripped her face after the anger left it, Elizabeth could see, it lived there all day. This woman, was gripped by a _great_ amount of sorrow. It was all there, plain as day, unspoken, behind her dulled blue eyes and dejection, rife in the air and aura around her. She had seen it before, in Iris when she first came to Chatsworth, that inescapable tint of sorrow.

“Don’t fash, Ma, I didn’t go far…” He fought gently. Softly batting her hands away.

The woman then turned her attention to Elizabeth, and she carefully forced a genteel expression of concern on her face for the benefit of talking to a stranger.

“I’m so sorry. He hasn’t been bothering you, has he?” She asked carefully.

“On the contrary. He’s a very adept conversationalist. Isn’t that right? _Mo charaid?”_ Elizabeth asked.

Peter smiled at her use of Gaelic, and addressing him as her friend.

 _“Oh_ , you speak Gaelic?” His Mother noticed.

“I was just explaining to Peter, I’ve a Scottish Uncle, lives up her Lock Kinnoch Ranach. He taught me the odd phrase or two. And, the _hefty_ amount of Scottish curse words.” She explained with a bright smile.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Margaret McMurray. This here is my son, Peter.” The woman introduced, bobbing into a slight curtsey.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Peter and Margaret. I’m Elizabeth Kenworthy… It’s lovely to meet you.” She said, warmly.

Peter noticed her eyes and her voice, looked as kind and as brilliant as her smile. He had never seen a lady with a more elegant face, so finer bones under her skin, like bone china, she did indeed have a porcelain face, with delicate skin to match. When he came outside and saw her examining the flowers, he’s never seen someone so beautiful look so serene. The flame of her hair resplendent with her pale skin, the fine silky blue of her eyes, went along like a dream with her rosebud lips and she had a petite, and nice straight smile that could have the potency to light up a room. He could tell by her elegant dress, she was a rich lady, and she suited so, in her pleasing manner.

She was what his father liked to call, a Swan Maiden, or a Selkie. He remembers being very young when his father wasn’t abroad working – which was a rare occurrence - he would hop up onto his father’s knees, after supper and before bedtime, and hear his father usher a story, in his proud, lulling Scottish tone that sounded rich and throaty, like warm honey when he was tired, and which could bark and snap like a feisty terrier when he was angered – though he hardly ever was. Peter remembered his father telling him about Selkies, slippery, dog like sea creatures who’d shed their skin, and let it melt away, when they came on land, to be the most gorgeous, and lovely of wives, with beauty so powerful, they could make a man mad with enchantment from the first look. _‘If ye ever see a selkie come to land, lad’_ He’d croon, in that husky voice Peter could remember so clearly _‘Ye’ll know it, because ye’ll ne’er want to take ye’r eyes from such a splendid sight ‘._ His father told him that after marrying, they’d live happily for many years, until one morning, their family would wake to find the Selkie had gone, returned to the sea, and it’s natural form, forever, lost to their loved ones, never to be seen or heard from again.

When he looked at the glories of the beautiful lady before him, he knew his father had been telling the truth. This lady, was what he imagined a selkie to be in their land form. And his father _had been right_ , he didn’t want to take his eyes from her, soon as he saw her examining the white flowers in front of her, with such serenity.

Elizabeth watched as Margaret seemed to have something dawn on her after her introduction.

“Elizabeth Kenworthy?” She asked “You’re never _the Duchess_ of Chatsworth?” She asked in a shocked tone.

Elizabeth smiled.

“The very one…” She answered wittily.

She looked a trifle embarrassed at finding out this fact. That her son had been accosting someone as high ranking as a _Duchess._

“My brother has written to me of you so many times, in his letters when we were up in Cumbria. He spoke of how you and your husband have been so kind to him in his moving here.”

Elizabeth thought for a second.

_Margaret and Peter._

“Oh. I’m so slow to the catch sometimes.” Elizabeth chided herself.

“You must be Hugh’s Sister and Nephew…” She understood.

“The very ones…” Peter smiled cheekily.

“Peter, don’t _be clever_.” His mother frowned at him.

Elizabeth smiled fondly at the boy.

The sound of more gravel crunching underfoot came from the church now, as some parishioners left down the other path across the chapel yard, tipping their hats towards the Lady of the Land, or curtseying, if they were of the female persuasion. It was then, after a few more people filtered out, that Elizabeth saw her husband, walking slowly with Hugh by his side. As they got out into the sunshine, both men noticed the small party of three, far off down the gravel path.

“I see you’ve already met. Stolen me the pleasure giving of an introduction…” Hugh called out, smiling as he came to stand by his Sister.

“You may blame my new friend Peter for having stolen your introductory pleasures.” Elizabeth winked at the boy. Who chuckled at the funny look his Uncle gave him.

“Just so, young man, I’ll challenge you to a game of Tom tiddlers ground for that later. Think you’ll find I am quite spry, even for my _old_ age.” Hugh teasingly promised.

“But, you have not robbed me of all my introductions yet, Dear Nephew. Margaret, may I have the pleasure of introducing to you Mr. and Mrs. Kenworthy, The Duke and Duchess of Chatsworth, Mi’Lord, Mi’Lady, this is my Sister, Margaret McMurray, and my nephew, Former champion of tiddlers ground, Peter McMurray .” Hugh gestured politely from his Sister to Thomas, who came to stand close to his wife’s side.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. McMurray. And you, young Sir.” Thomas smiled, offering to shake the boys’ hand, smiling gently as he did, coming to crouch. For a man _so_ tall as he, he knew he imposed and towered over most children, which was why he always crouched to introduce himself, so as not to lord over, and scare them at first glance.

“Tell me, Peter, do you like magic?” Thomas asked, digging in his pocket.

“I spose.” Peter let out.

His mother prodded him lightly, and discreetly in the back.

“I mean, _ur, Yes,_ yes. My Lord.” He corrected himself – at Margaret’s not so subtle urging.

“Well. My father taught me this trick, when I was a young boy. And he always had a slight of hand, and as me and my, _lovely_ wife, are expecting our own baby rather soon, I find myself in need of seeing if I can manage to do the trick. Would you consent to my using you as practice?”

Thomas asked, settling himself comfortable onto one knee, uncaring if he got dust on his dark breeches. Peter chuckled heartily at the request, and gave his grinning consent. Margaret and Hugh smiled too. When she thought of a Lord, she thought, lofty, powerful, money grabbing. An ugly old crone who held himself in high regard above people whom he thought were below him. But this man, he was all smiles, airs and graces. He was dashing, dark but easy going. It was surprising to see someone of so much wealth, and power, as happy as someone who had none of those virtues or riches to enjoy. He was a contented man. And it showed, in the crook of his easy, handsome smile, and the life and joy that sparkled in his eyes.

Thomas placed a shiny coin, a ha’penny, in one hand, both outstretched, he placed it in his left. Before putting them behind his back for a moment, and bringing each arm back around. Asking Peter to chose which hand. Peter took a second to think, before tapping the left. Thomas smiled, turning his hands over and stretching them open, to show that they were completely empty.

“Now, If I may…” Thomas spoke intently, reaching his hand over to the boy, he flexed his fingers to reach behind Peter’s ear, and with a flick of the wrist, managed to pull the coin out from behind his ear. Peter gave an impressed chuckle, checking the space behind his ear to see if there were any more. Thankfully, there weren’t. But Thomas tossed the coin into Peter’s hands. Straightening up. Telling him to spend it on anything he liked.

“Oh, Mi’Lord. That is too kind of you...” Margaret fretted.

“If I can’t part with a mere ha’penny to a young boy of my acquaintance. Then I am the most foul, tightfisted wretch of the worst determined sort.” Thomas smiles.

“And please, address me as Thomas or merely, Kenworthy, if you would Mrs. McMurray. I can’t bear to be hiding behind my title.” He eases.

“As you wish, Mr. Kenworthy.” Margaret offers.

“I understand you’ve taken a job at the milliners in town, Mrs. McMurray?” Elizabeth coos.

“Indeed. I start there next week. It’ll be nice to, get working at something gentle again. I used to have to operate a printing press at an office I worked up in Cumbria, and that was sore handed work if ever I knew any.” She told. “It should be nice to go back to something kinder on my hands and my working hours.”

“Well, if you’re free on weekends, I insist that you, Peter, and Hugh all come over for tea. At present my own relatives are up from London, and I’m sure they’d _love_ to meet you, so would Edith and Judith.” Elizabeth predicted.

Thomas nodded at her words.

“They’d be delighted to meet you. Any family of the Reverend is welcome at Chatsworth even at a seconds notice.” Thomas pressed.

“Hugh told me in his letters, that you were both too kind for words…” Margaret added.

“And I sincerely _meant_ every term …” He added with a smile. Looking as handsome and as kind as ever, his tawny hair glinting a slight chestnut red in the sun, his seafoam eyes alight with bright happiness that echoed in his smile, with his black cassock coat whipping around him in the breeze, his swallow tail cravat following suit. Twitching about his neck, as if it had a life of its own and wanted to get away. He had his small battered prayer book in one hand. That tattered leather spine telling of how it was dog-eared, and was struggling to stand the test of time as his favored prayer book.

More gravel being crunched underfoot, told them that they were about to become an even larger party, and sure enough, Iris, and Edith were side by side, almost looking like twin’s as mother and daughter heading down the path to happen upon their relatives, followed In tow by Araminta, Violet and Benedict, whom were a while back, and engaged in lively conversation with Judith. Sir Carlton was so kind as to stoop down from his towering height, and hold Judith’s hand as they went along.

“Sorry to have kept you. Please do forgive us, I was just chatting with Mrs. Muggeridge. She was exultantly telling me how she has just become a Great-Grandmother.” Iris smiled to her relatives.

“It’s of no matter, Irie. No need to fret yourself.” Thomas smiled. “We have just made Reverend Everett’s Sister and Nephews acquaintance.” He told.

“ _Oh,_ you must be Margaret, and Peter.” Iris smiled heartily towards Mrs. and Master McMurray

“And from what my brother mentioned in his letters, you must be Iris Thatcher-Kenworthy.” Margaret smiled warmly. The sorrow vanished for a second, replaced by joy at meeting the woman her brother had crowed so fantastically about in his letters. She then tilted her eyes across to Hugh, whose cheeks tinted a little redder than usual.

“He wrote, so warmly of you in his letters. And your daughter, Edith. He said he has never had more pleasure in tutoring someone in religious studies before.” Margaret told.

“I’ve never had a finer, more intellectual student.” Hugh promised, looking at Edith.

She smiled back at the Reverend.

“And I’ve never had a pleasanter teacher to quarrel with so finely.”

Margaret smiled, stretching her cheeks wide as she did.

“ _Yes_ , he said you were generously vigorous with your opinion.”

“At my age, there’s little else for me to be so vigorous about.” Edith confessed.

“You’ll find no better reader, nor bookworm, in all of Derbyshire, while my Edie stands.” Thomas confessed to Margaret.

“The least _harmless_ hobby a girl can have.” Margaret insisted.

“Iris, Edith, me and Peter were going to walk back to town through the meadows. Hugh was planning to come along, should any of you care to join us if you can spare the time?” Margaret asked the party before her.

“I should adore too, but unfortunately, my ankles have swollen to the size of a shire horses fetlocks. Most acutely uncomfortable for walking long distance, which is a great pity, for I love a constitutional. And my darling husband here gives the _best foot_ massage in all of the English Isles, so I am afraid I’ll need his expert hands once we get home. But, discounting us, I’m sure Iris and Edith would take great pleasure in a country walk…”

Elizabeth winked slyly at her niece. Edith caught it and instantly understood. _A woman after her own heart…_

“Indeed, I think I would.” Edith professed “Mother?” She asked, turning to Iris, who grinned at her daughter.

“We should adore to accompany you.” Iris smiled. She turned around to look for her Judith.

“Never you worry, We’ll keep her majesty entertained for the afternoon.” Elizabeth assured.

Iris raised a brow.

“You’re _sure?”_ She asked.

“ _Oh_ , Positive.” Elizabeth beamed. Swiftly kicking Thomas in the side of the knee when she saw him open his mouth to enquire. He quickly shut it, frowning and looking a little put out.

“You’re not needed at your church this afternoon, Sir?” Iris asked Hugh.

“Not at all, my Verger, Mr. Sampson will keep the Chapel for me in my absence. I believe he wanted me out of his way this afternoon anyway, He wanted to polish the pews, and I’d only be a nuisance interfering in his way If I stayed.” He explained, making Iris laugh.

“Shall we?” Hugh asked, looking overjoyed as he offered Iris his arm. She nodded and glided to his side with an angelic and glad smile.

Elizabeth inclined her head at the both of them with a smile, before the party of five, turned and headed down the chapel path. Thomas and Elizabeth watched them go as Araminta, Violet and Judith caught them up. Her majesty had now migrated to a prime position of being on Sir Carlton’s shoulders, Which altogether made them seven feet tall. Violet was laughing at the two, and Araminta looked remarkably happy, having been able to be let in on the gossip from Castletown. It didn’t matter she wasn’t a local to the area, _gossip,_ was _gossip_.

“They certainly make a happy pair.” Benedict remarked, watching Iris and Hugh converse in a friendly manner as they walked away across to the parsonage. Edith was holding a merry conversation with Peter, and Margaret.

“A fine match, for he’s mild and well tempered, and she’s quiet, and _ever so_ handsome.” Araminta concluded to Violet.

“I spy the hand of a meddling matchmaker, Mrs. Kenworthy…” Violet japed, prodding her friend in the ribs with her elbow.

Elizabeth grinned, evidently, rather pleased with herself.

Thomas then turned to his wife.

“Why didn’t you tell me your ankles were hurting you?”

Elizabeth looked at him.

“ _Oh,_ my simply, _sweet_ husband.” She smiled, cupping his cheek.

 _“They aren’t.”_ She grinned.

Thomas could tell he had a lot to learn about this match making lark.

They had just turned to get in their carriage, and Thomas helped Araminta, and Violet inside. When from up the road they heard horses hooves, and there came a sudden commotion, namely an unsettled horse. Thomas, Benedict and Elizabeth turned to see a rider struggle with controlling his horse, as it reared and jumped, startled by something it had come across. She couldn’t see much of the rider, only that he wore a red velvet coat, and a black top-hat, and brown boots.

Thomas and Benedict were ready to spring into action, but it looked like they didn’t need too after all.

 

“Man must be drunk. _Cad._ Unable to control his _own damn_ horse.”

Benedict spoke with revulsion. Thomas looked at his friend as he spoke, but otherwise said nothing, he noticed how slobbenly the man was being in reigning in his animal.

The party of five that included Hugh, Iris, Peter, Margaret and Edith were gathered to the side of the path, not far from the lazy mystery rider and his incontrollable horse.

Elizabeth didn’t understand why the man had stopped. Until she looked a little closer. The horse was nervously trotting, turning in a circle, side wards, and now they were able to see the rider. Black shaggy hair, and eyes the colour of pine. The not entirely unpleasant, but long face of Sir Rupert Farrell.

“Audley.” Thomas muttered lowly.

Benedict looked upon the man with all the hatred the lout rightfully deserved.

“Shame on any man who commands a horse under drink, like that.” Benedict growled.

Elizabeth didn’t hear them converse, Instead, she turned to look at the party, searching for Iris. But her eyes found more to look at when they landed on Margaret.

She would never, _in all her life_ , forget the look of shock that was on Mrs. McMurray’s face. She was white as a sheet, and looked like she seen something of truly horrific origins, a ghost, or an unpleasant encounter. Her mouth was a pursed line, and even from this far away, she could see her knuckles were gripped tight as could be onto Peter’s shoulder. Her eyes, were now flooded with terror and mortification. Sparkling with unshed tears.

Her eyes flipped back to Sir Rupert, who was grinning so intently it made her sick. He leered towards the Reverend, who looked ready to tackle the man off the horse and strangle him with his bare hands, company and witnesses be damned. She had seen that kind of anger of Hugh’s face before, when he had protected Edith and Judith from Burke, the disconcerting kind of anger and repugnance that she would hate to be on the end of. Because it looked lethal.

Elizabeth knew she had witnessed something here, something akin to the worst, most acute sort of pain imaginable, and not hers to know. Clearly there was a secret, too deep and too dark to reveal about Hugh Everett’s association with The Earl of Audley.

 

It must have been agony of the most tender and bitterest kind, indeed.

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite his wealth, title, and handsome looks. Before he met Elizabeth, Thomas would very happily have considered staying a Bachelor until his death. (Just as Elizabeth would have stayed happily umarried until she met him) The season he met Elizabeth he was intending to make his last ever one in London. He was going to quit the town. He would not have bothered going down for another year, and would have left his estate to be divided between Edith, Iris and Judith when he passed away. Had Thomas not been doing business with Sir Richard, and not been invited to Dinner. They may never have met. Though they both graced balls, possibly even attending the same balls in town, they never crossed each others paths. Elizabeth would be confined to the matrons corner, as she was an unwed, unmatched spinster, and Thomas would be too busy dancing with the wallflowered girls. They intend to give their first born, gender depending ‘Richard’ as a middle name in odes of thanks to Sir Farrow.


	86. Old Friends, Horrible Lists, and Planning a Ball...

~

 

After everyone had returned from church that afternoon. Thomas and Benedict contented themselves going out for a ride through the dales, Thomas had wanted to stay with his wife, but she kissed him on the cheek and handed him his riding boots and shooed him off into Sir Carlton’s care. Araminta and Felicity took up their watercolor palettes to paint the splendor of Chatsworth’s manicured, and well-kept gardens. They had entrusted Judith – for the time being – into the great care of Nanny Lyon’s for some math’s tutoring. Mr. Farrow had found a first edition of John Donne to devour in solitude. Caroline had wished to be left alone in the east wing green salon to complete her business affairs – and no one had fought her on it, nor offered their company to her. And, last but not least, Edith and Iris had _not yet_ returned from their excursion with Hugh and his Sister, as of yet. And Elizabeth would not wish them back, if they were as enamored of each other as she thought they were. Though, rattling round at the back of her head, was the incident she had witnessed earlier, with The Earl of Audley and how blanched Margaret had been on merely seeing the man, and how rageful Hugh had looked. It was niggling at the back of her brain for some reason.

That left Elizabeth plenty of time to enjoy a few hours alone with Violet – whom she had missed greatly since she came here. Violets was a friendship in which letters every week or so, simply _weren’t_ enough. They were too closer friends to properly fulfill their acquaintance via writing. _No._ In person suited the both of them fine. They were too gooder, and closer friends for it to be anything _less._

The two ladies took themselves off into the gardens for some peace and quiet, the house was wonderful, but they both shared infinite pleasure in taking a turn in the luscious gardens. Elizabeth loved the staff – she really did - but she sometimes felt that she was always within earshot of one of them, so it was nice to escape out of doors for a while, with the feeling of privacy, lest the gardener, Barkley, was _lurking_ behind the nearest hedge but she very much doubted it. It was very freeing to venture into the fresh air, onto the emerald grass, under a sunny sky.

“So Thomas truly said _nothing_ of the houses size before you were wed?” Violet asked, trailing her fingertips across a lively butterfly bush, sprouting arrow head shaped, purple flowers.

“I think he wanted to watch _the look_ on my face as we drove up the drive to the house…”

Elizabeth smiled, absentmindedly plucking a rose from a swarming bush, teaming with them, it was a champagne hued rose, and it almost matched the ivory cream of her scalloped dress. As both women were out of company, they forwent bonnets or parasols. Both wanting to feel the suns warmth. And, as Elizabeth was a married lady, she could chaperone Violet, so the social norms could be relaxed.

Besides, Elizabeth didn’t think she could impose rules and etiquette on Violet even if she _had wanted_ too.

“You’ve certainly struck _gold_ in your marriage match.” Violet sighed glumly. Smiling for her friend, wishing she would be half as lucky, and hating the fact her family had grown so desperate as to pair her off now, she had to get away just for the peace and quiet away from match making.

“And I’ll be wishing equal felicities and happiness on yours, when the time comes, _I’m sure.”_ Elizabeth said knowingly.

Violet scoffed wryly at her friend.

“Is your father still urging you to choose a suitor?”

Elizabeth asked with sympathy in her wincing frown.

“If I have not chosen a suitor by the end of the year, then Aunt insists I must pick one from the list, for he has allowed me too much choice as it is.” Violet parroted unhappily. Idly letting her hands toy with a long stemmed purple poppy.

A few things that were common knowledge about Violet Eliza Burchrowe. Her mother had died in childbirth bringing her into the world, and Violet was an only child. Her father, Hector Burchrowe, was a well-respected businessman in London, owning a Bank took some hard work, and at the grief of his wife, Ellen Burchrowe’s departure from the world, Violet had been left at the mercy of his sister, her aunt, Mrs. Gertrude Harrington.

Unable to cope with the prospect of solely running a thriving family business, and the female ettiquacy’s of raising a young debutante, Violet’s Aunt had moved in with them, along with her younger – by four years - cousin, the unusually fair and always good natured, humble and utterly sweet, Catherine Harrington. Hair and skin so fair, they were almost the same colour, and her cornflower blue eyes attracted admiration wherever she went. Whereas Violet, _always_ , was remarked to be a _little too_ ungainly, lumbering, opinionated, and graceless to be considered a demure debutante, _or_ a first rate wife for that matter. Where Catherine was constantly admired, and bombarded with praise, and considered lovely wherever she went, similarly, Violet was ruminated as peculiarly robust and unusually and extraordinarily _loud_ for her slight size.

Catherine was _admired_. Violet was _Tolerable_ \- in small doses. 

Under the watchful eye of her Aunt, Catherine and Violet were paired together to complete their debutante training, Catherine excelled, being accomplished in every manner, trying her hardest to be pleasing, and Violet tried her hardest _not to_  be in _every_ manner possible. She stubbornly refused any suitor who dared look her way, and declared her looks to be just  _‘pleasing.’_ As much as she pushed so against tending toward being the prim, ornamental model of a woman which would please most Victorian gentlemen, she, actually, _didn’t_ enjoy being considered second rate. Or ranked second to her cousin. 

She longed for one day when a man might look at her, and be moved to consider matrimonial thoughts. She didn’t want, anymore, to be engaged by a gentleman just because they wanted to get to Catherine, _through her_. For once, she would like it if a gentleman took _her_ at her full value, and admired her keenly for it.

But, until such a time came, she would kick, and resist and refuse to be wed. And would carry on her extraordinarily loud, and unusually maladroit ways. _And no man_ , she was convinced, _would sway her into being otherwise._ Which despaired her Aunt Gertie to no avail, and made Catherine try and stifle her giggles. Usually when she shoved far too much into her mouth at dinner and made funny faces at Cath across the table, or when she took great joy in stamping - _a little too_ _eagerly_ \- on toes of repugnant men who fancied their chances with her fair cousin, stumbling her profuse apologies before doing it again on complete purpose not _half_ a second later.

She was loved and appreciated for her wit at home, make no mistake about that, but for once, she wished someone would look at _her_ the way she had seen people look at Catherine.

“ _Good heavens_.” Elizabeth cursed in her typical Elizabeth manner “There’s a _list?”_ She asked with shock.

“ _Oh._ _There’s_ a bloody list alright…”

Violet stewed. Throwing her flower away. Of course, her Aunt was far too genial to force her up the altar. But she was four and twenty and unmarried – _still._ And Aunt Gertie had long been holding the threat of a list over the girl. Stating they had been too kind in allowing her to stay unwed so long. But, then again, Gertrude couldn’t be sure if that was just because Violet, was _well –_ being very _Violet_ , and scaring them off, _or,_ whether it had anything to do with her not being pushed into the matter of taking a husband. Perhaps they had let her indulge _too much time_ in her hobbies, and _not enough_ in the sport of being successful on the marriage mart.

Violet remembered Gerties words to her before she left for Derbyshire to see Elizabeth. _‘Take every opportunity to capture a man’s fancy whilst you’re there, Violet. Don’t talk with your mouth full, try not to dance if you can avoid it, you always seem to crush men’s toes underfoot with your ungainly dancing, and try not to be too loud. Men do not want a loud wife. Heaven forfend, you may come back from Derbyshire with a decent reputation left behind you – if were very lucky.’_

“And who, _pray tell_ , is on this list?” Elizabeth asks.

“So far…” Violet began. “Four Suitors…” She told.

“Mr. Nathaniel Fishenden.” Violet spoke with little fondness.

Elizabeth blinked unbelievingly at her friend.

“The son of Viscount Charlbury, The one who’s still in the _schoolroom?”_ She asked

“Never mind that, he hasn’t even flourished into _adolescence_ yet. And he still has _zits._ ” Violet told.

“And he’s ten and four years old… Let’s not forget _that._ ” Elizabeth added. “Who’s next?” She added.

Violet shuddered.

“Lord Russell Hewlett the Third.” She informed.

Elizabeth frowned.

“He is two and eighty…” She spoke, clearly shocked and rather glad she had met her Thomas when she did, if London’s marriage contenders now were anything to go by, she had indeed been gifted to find a handsome, loving young Duke who was _mad_ about her. Lord Hewlett was closer to the grave, than the cradle, She doubted whether the man could even _walk_ down the aisle to if and when he took a bride.

Violet said nothing, but her face said everything as she looked at her best friend.

“Next. Please…” Elizabeth continued.

“Sir Norbert Remmington.” Violet spoke blandly, so Elizabeth could tell he was just as bad as the rest of the bunch on this list.

“ _THE_ Sir Norbert Remmington?” Elizabeth asked. “The one who’s had _seven_ wives?”

She wasn’t holding out much faith in Gertrude Harrington’s selection of eligible young men. She seemed to be taking the title too literally, yet applying the title too liberally all at the same time.

“And he wears a toupee.” Violet added dejectedly. “I danced with him last year at Lady Maynard’s Ball, he took the gavotte a little too enthusiastically, and it went flying off his head and across to the other side of the ballroom. I think Lord Galway put out his ankle slipping over it.” Violet spoke.

Elizabeth bit her lip so as not to laugh.

“That’s my actual day to day life you’re laughing at there, Kenworthy. Meanwhile you swan about in your palatial house, with your nice young husband, and your lovely gardens...” Violet smiled, mumbling moodily. The smile somewhat ruining her morose words.

“Violet. Gertie is _only_ trying to make you consider marriage. She loves and wants the best for you. She doesn’t want to see you left on the shelf is all. You know she won’t force you up the aisle, she just wants you to think of it, and to see you looked after.”

“I’ll have you know, my shelf life suits me immeasurably well.”

“So did mine.” Elizabeth fights back. No one could quite make Violet see sense, but Elizabeth.

“ _God_ , until that night at dinner, I thought I would be taking Aristotle for walks in the park, going book buying, museum visiting, and piano playing until I was grey, withered and decrepit.” She told.

“And, you knew from the first look, you wanted to marry Thomas?” Violet asked.

“I can’t explain it. ” Elizabeth smiled, fondly, recalling the moment she had first looked at Thomas.

“I looked at him, and he at me, and _, I don’t know_ … there was something _electric, a spark_. A glimmer of something powerful I can’t designate As if _everything_ suddenly became clear. Like we were _destined_ for each other…” She spoke dreamily.

She turned to the side to see Violet smiling.

“Does that sound _mad?”_ She asked frowning.

“Only a little.” Violet beamed.

Elizabeth hung her head, before Violet took her friends pale hand, and squeezed it tight.

“It’s enviable how you fell so hard for each other at first glance. I only wish I could have that for myself. _Then maybe_ I can get Gertie off my back, haranguing me about marriage night and day. _Ugh”_ She smiled, thinking how nice. _And quiet,_ it would be to live sans her aunt’s nagging.

“You’ll have it one day.” Elizabeth assured her.

“Can you tell _when?_ Because it would be terribly handy to supply Gertie with a date so she stops with all her _damned_ nagging.” Violet fooled.

Elizabeth Smiled, too widely, at Violet, her blue eyes shaded with mischief.

“One fine day, when you perhaps stop being so stubborn. And, Benedict Carlton, you know is-“

“ _Do not_ finish that sentence…” Violet smiled in warning.

“Well, _why not?”_ Elizabeth asks.

Violet daggered her friend a spearing look. Telling her she knew _perfectly well_ why not.

“He is young, incredibly handsome, funny, wealthy, and wonderfully fun with Judith-” Elizabeth prattled on.

“And not the man for me.” Violet finished for her. “He has mistresses for _every day_ of the week. I _couldn’t have_ a husband like that.” Violet insisted.

“But I will say this. Over, the past few weeks, seeing him and his Great Aunt, and how he behaves when he is around family, I have come to know him, not as a _complete_ cad. My first impression was incorrect. Though he is still a _dishonest rake_ , he is a slightly less repugnant one around this closer, relatives. He is a... _palatable_ gentleman of my acquaintance.” She spoke, looking ahead as she spoke, when she looked back to her friend. Elizabeth tilted her head.

“Well. That’s the first time I’ve _ever_ heard you admit, aloud, that you were _wrong._ ” Elizabeth smiled.

“ _Not wrong.”_ Violet was quick to insist. She _would die_ before she would be wrong.

“I was….. _misinformed.”_ She corrected loftily.

Elizabeth smiled. Not at all believing her. Smiling as she shook her head.

“ _Oh_ , who was the fourth on Gerties list, by the way?” She asked.

So far as her memory served her, Violet had only mentioned _three_ names.

Violet looked like she would rather Elizabeth hadn’t brought it up. She relayed the name with dread.

“Emery Thorebourne.” She spoke dryly. Her tone flat and unimpressed.

 _“Who?”_ Elizabeth asked. “I must admit I’ve never heard of him.” She confessed.

“Then let me leave you with this. Upon conversing with him at Lord Whitlock’s ball on a rainy June night. I asked him if the weather was turning intemperate. And he confessed he had never heard of temperate.” She admitted.

Elizabeth tried to hide her mirth – and failed badly.

Violet sighed.

“I admire Gerties persistence. A child, an Elder, a bald man, and a Simpleton. It doesn’t inspire terribly much enthusiasm nor admiration for the London marriage mart.” Elizabeth supposed.

“Hence why I decided your invitation to Derbyshire was, in many forms, a godsend. Even, company withstanding.” She smiled, referring to the man she shared a carriage with.

“He’s not _, so,_ bad.” Elizabeth tried to persuade her donkey headed friend.

Violet looked at the Duchess. Raising a brow.

“He isn’t. You should get Gertie to add _him_ to the list. He’d be a fine applicant. Atleast then there would be a contender your age, and who is, I daresay, more amiable than the rest. Is not too old, or stupid, and has all his own follicles on his head.” She pointed out.

“Believe me, Elizabeth, I do not want Mr. Carlton on my list, any more than he wants me on his. And if, such a day comes when he is included on aforesaid list, then that shall be the day when pigs start to _fly_.” Violet spoke seriously.

“I desist.” Elizabeth gave up.

“ _Please_ do, or I’ll teach your young one's how to sew, and play their instruments _incredibly ill_  just to spite you.” Violet smirked.

Elizabeth raised a brow, rubbing her hand over her belly, smiling down at it.

“Well. I shan’t be turning to you or Felicity for tuition in any subjects, apart from how to be stubborn and fashionably independent.” Elizabeth joked.

“Just so. I’m afraid I can only teach them how to grate so on their parent’s nerves when they are trying so valiantly to get them wed off.” Violet laughs.

“They do have, _me_ , for a mother. I’m sure they’ll get _every_ wayward, infuriating habit of mine that Thomas will curse over when, and if, we have a daughter when she reaches my age.” She smiles proudly.

Violet chuckles.

“In that case, you shan’t need my infamous assistance.” Violet grinned.

“On the contrary, we’ve selected you and Benedict to be godparents.” Elizabeth beamed brightly. Looking remarkably pleased with herself.

Violet opened her mouth to say more, but on finding nothing decent in her brain, slammed her lips shut once more.

“Will you consider adding Carlton to the list now, for _me?_ ” Elizabeth asks.

Violet glared halfheartedly at her friend.

“Never in a million years.” Violet smiled prettily.

“I will be a spinster godparent to yours and Thomas’ hundreds of unruly, red headed children.” She promised.

“Great Auntie Violet.” Elizabeth spoke aloud. Testing the name.

Violet winced.

“On second thoughts, That name makes me sound ancient beyond my years. Perhaps I’ll take Norbert Remmington after all.”

“ _Aw, how sweet_ , you can help him glue on his hair, each morning.” Elizabeth smiles.

Violet looked across at her friend in desperation.

“Maybe I should buy a cane now, and start turning into an elderly old groan, wearing a knitted drape over my shoulders, and a matrons laced cap.” Violet supposed, her shoulders slumping dolefully.

“Or, here’s a _mad_ idea, you could meet someone at a ball whom you really esteem.” Elizabeth suggests.

“That’s all very well and good, but who would have me?” She asked.

Elizabeth thought for a second.

“What colour cane will you purchase?” She asked.

Violet held out for a second, and so did the Duchess, before they both burst into peels of laughter. They had missed this. Violet, for someone to confide her closest woes and thoughts to, and Elizabeth, for someone to make her laugh at herself again.

They were interrupted by a little voice behind them, calling something into the gardens, undistinguishable from such a distance away.

They turned to see a housemaid, and a brand new addition to Chatsworth staff’s ranks at that, her name was Suzette. Suzetté Donnèt, not nine and ten, she applied for the job as a kitchen maid, fresh off the ferry from France, with excellent recommendations and references from her previous employers in Paris, Mrs. Robson, the housekeeper had only been _too keen_ to take her on. She was a lovely girl, even though she spoke an odd combination of good English and the odd French word mixed into her vocabulary. She always seemed to have rosy pink cheeks, which went very well with her finely boned face, and her soft caramel brown eyes, her hair a matching shade of bark brown. Violet and Elizabeth saw her picking up her blue chiffon skirts as she made her way very quickly, skirting through the gardens to get to the Lady of the house.

“Mi’Lady! Lady Elizabeth! _Oh_ _Mon Dieu! Mi’Lady…”_ She called in her soft utterly French voice.

“Suzetté, slow down, _whatever’s_ the matter?”

Elizabeth asked the young girl. When she caught up to them, she was gulping down mouthfuls of air, trying to restore her lungs into their natural working order. She came close to the girl and unstuck a few curls of hair from her sticky, sweaty brow as she wheezed for breath. Rubbing her shoulder soothingly as she gulped for the air.

“ _S’il vous plait_ , Mi’Lady, you are…. _Hhh_ , needed at _le house, maison,_ immédiatement, _at once._ C’est-it’s Madame Kenworthy. She is, _urhh._ Agité- er, how, _urrh._ you say, très _angry_.” She told, still gasping for air to fill her lungs. She was nearly close to tears.  Elizabeth had heard enough to know that her mother-in-law must have been causing trouble amongst the staff back up at the house. It seemed to be a daily occurrence with the woman, she almost had trouble making down as a finely formed hobby.

 “Is Thomas not back from his ride yet?” Elizabeth asked with curiosity. 

“Non, Mi’Lady. He is still, _er_ , _en dehors_. Still _out_.” She explained. 

Elizabeth grit her teeth. 

“Alright Suzetté. _Ne paniquez pas.._ Let’s go and see what all the fuss is about… _C’est d’accord. Pas besoin de larmes_." 

She smiled, moving her hand to the housemaids back, speaking confidently and reassuringly. Telling her it was ok, and there was no need for tears, she would come and attend the matter.

All three ladies moved off, running back towards the house from the Rose Gardens. Sharing a terse look with Violet before she did. Whatever this trifling matter was, she was sure it would be enough raise her blood pressure a good few amounts before the conversation was through. 

They got back into the house via the steps leading up to the foyer, through the open French terrace doors which led into the tiled hallway, leading up to the stairs. There, it appears, Caroline was getting into a heated debate with Ethel, the cook. With Wilkin’s, the Butler and Mrs. Robson, the stout housekeeper, all senior staff, each heads of the house each in their own right, stood by with grim faces as Ethel and Caroline were going at it tooth and claws.

“Look _. Missus_. Expectin’ me to _hop to it_ wiv’ language like _that_ ain’t gonna wash. _You ‘ere me?_ You want me to cater this fancy ball. You ask me in a respe’table manner, else you won’t get _diddly squat_ from _me_ , or _me_ kitchen maids. _Got’ it?”_

Ethel laid into Caroline, her hands on her stained apron hips. Her face resolute as Caroline looked livid, ready to spit fire and fury at the misbehaving cook. Taking a deep breath, with which to snarl some more hatred. 

Violet hung back, But Elizabeth stormed right in, as if she were marching into battle. Her face stony and rageful. Violet had never seen her look _so enraged._

“Now you listen to me, you _servant._ ” Caroline warned, spitting her words.

“I’ve taken _every_ measure to be civil with you, but my patience is wearing _acutely thin_ _._ Now, try to get it into your thick skull, that I am the _Dowager Countess_ of this house, and I _demand_ that you make what I have ordered you to. Otherwise I will have my son throw your out on your ear. Is that understood?” She snapped.

“You can demand all you like, that doesn’t mean I’ll listen to ya’. My orders come from Thomas or ‘Lizabeth. Not you.” Ethel promised, Crossing her arms and not giving up.

Caroline opened her mouth, but Elizabeth opened hers wider.

“What _the hell_ is going on here?”

She ordered in a no nonsense tone. So much so, that the staff about her shrunk back.

“This _miserable excuse_ for a cook, is what is the matter... “ The dowager snarled.

Elizabeth could see out of the corner of her eye, Ethel inhaled a deep, angry breath and began to roll up her sleeves. If Caroline wasn’t careful, those strong cooks hands that could break carcass bones, and knead dough to perfection would soon swing for her in a mighty punch – and Elizabeth would let it.

“Why haven’t you trained _your staff_ properly Elizabeth? Or, _I suppose_ , you’re too busy _swanning about_ with your friends to run a house in a proper manner.” Caroline sneered.

Elizabeth stepped right up into the woman’s face. Ready to spit nails. Caroline seemed to back down slightly.

“ _I_ run this house, as Thomas _or I_ see fit, and so help me Lord, as long as I still have my senses about me, **_no one_** in it shall talk to my staff in such a manner. I don’t care if they are a member of the royal family. You are to address every person in this house with respect and dignity, and if you do not, I shall personally throw you out of it. _Is that understood?”_ Elizabeth seethed.

Caroline ground her teeth.

“Staff are meant to follow, orders.” She bit back.

“You _are quite_ correct. _Remarkably._ But seeing as the orders are coming from _you,_ I sincerely doubt they will be equitable or reasonable.” Elizabeth predicted.

Caroline looked ready to hurl another insult at her daughter-in-law, But Elizabeth cut her off, arms crossed, eyes like blue venom, her rosebud lips were an unamused ruler straight line on her face.

“Speak _, now_. Caroline. Or you will find my patience is _not infinite_.” Elizabeth warned.

The dowager fidgeted for a minute, before she answered. Making it clear she was used to giving orders, _not_ following them.

“I was seeking out your fickle cook, to go over a menu.” Caroline told, at last.

“Mrs. Robson and I, go over the dinner menus weekly. If you wished to change or amend to them. Then you should have come, to _me._ ” Elizabeth informed her.

“I’m aware of that.” Caroline snapped. “It has become quite apparent in my staying here that no one of substance was planning the meals…” She insulted.

“Are you insulting my cookin’?” Ethel bellowed, starting forwards at the woman. Elizabeth braced her back, holding a slender, elegant arm in her path.

Caroline trotted backwards, unused to being threatened in such a manner.

“I should _guard_ your words here _very carefully_ , Caroline.” Elizabeth warned.

“I wanted to plan a menu… for a _ball._ ” Caroline finally let out.

“That’s very well and good, but we weren’t planning _to host, a ball.”_

“…And that is why, you’ll _never_ become a successful lady of the house. Just as _I knew_ you wouldn’t.” Caroline dug with a smug smile.

“Do you think my husband and I, wouldn’t notice when a few hundred people turned up for a ball?” Elizabeth asked. “Pray, When were you planning on revealing your plans, _if, at all?”_ She added.

“I was going to bring it up over our – _abysmal_ – dinner this evening.” Caroline interjected.

“ _Right. That’s it._ I’m gonna _wallop ya’_ …” Ethel growled, again, her advancing cut off by Elizabeth’s outstretched arm.

“ _Just when_ , were you planning to host this ball?” Elizabeth enquired further.

“Next week.” Caroline answered, as if she were bored of this conversation.

“A week is not a lot of time to prepare a ball, not to mention invitations, buying in the food, preparing the house, there’s too much to consider with the ball only being next week…” Elizabeth informed.

“We can’t cancel. The invitations have already been sent.” She insisted. “When I was Duchess we held the Lady Marie Ball here every year, with no exceptions whatsoever. I cannot fathom such _disregard_ for it in my absence. It is our duty to hold it, and upkeep the reputation of this house, which has been severely _tarnished_ as of late.” Caroline sneered, looking up and down at Elizabeth with a discontented glare, showing the woman she was the reason for such slobbenly behavior in the Kenworthy family.

“Shut your foul Mouth, right this second...” Elizabeth seethed.

“You sent them without even so much _as asking_ Thomas’s, or my, _permission?_ ”

“I am the reigning Dowager of this house…” She tried to reason.

Elizabeth stepped right up to her. Cutting her off dead.

“ _And I, am_ it’s reigning **_Duchess._** What I say, goes. **_No_** exceptions.” Elizabeth ordered in an angry roar. Her eyes flaring.

Caroline narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips at the woman in front of her.

 _“FINE_ ” She spat.

“You think you can do better? _Do you?_ _Here_ …”

She spat filthily. Shoving the guest list into Elizabeth’s hands, snatching herself away immediately, as if touching the woman would burn her. she then tore herself around and poised herself to march away.

“ _You_ plan the ball. Seeing as you’re obviously too pregnant to be of any _other_ use. But you will know I seriously condemn my son taking you as a bride. You are low classed, low mannered and just about the most _wretched_ woman I have ever met, and every second  _you breathe_ , I regret that _you_ are now the Mistress of this fine house. My son deserves _so much better for a wife_ , than _you._ He _was stupid_ to make such a _hasty match_ in such rash sentiment.” She snarled

“I pray with _all my soul_ he realizes what a mistake he’s made, marrying such a laughable, pitiable girl. And what’s worse, siring a _bastard,_ of low blood and no decent breeding, with _you_. Why don’t you just _pack up_ and go home, _back to London_ to your pathetic little _untitled_ life. No one here would _miss you.”_ She promised with a smile as she stalked away.

Elizabeth stood watching her go. To her credit she was too angry to let any tears come. She was _fuming._ There was so much anger coursing through her, she was shaking with rage.

She took a deep breath, unawares that Thomas had just come home from his excursion, and had heard every, poison dripping word she had said. She didn’t even hear Violet, or Wilkins, or any of the staff for that matter, call her name. She turned on her heel and she stalked away. And her husband, her staff and her friends all knew she was in no mood to be, and didn’t desire to be, followed.

 

She would plan this ball, if it killed her. And if just to prove that, _hag,_ she had been utterly _wrong._

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1834, when Thomas was young, only seven years of age, he was out playing in Chatsworth wood, when he was wounded by a poacher trying to steal game from Chatsworths land, who mistook the boy for a member of the staff, he was shot at, and the bullet grazed him, and he staggered back to the house, in shock and bleeding heavily from his arm. It was the only time he had ever seen his Father look so furious. The Poacher was caught, and trialed to be hanged for murder, but, the Duke didn’t press charges. He had seen that the man knew poaching was a serious offence, and very well knew the toll of his actions, should he be caught, and must have been terrified to shoot and injure his son. When asked, in court for his reasons not to see the man hanged, Theodore Kenworthy said that truly great measures of desperation must have moved this man to steal food from a Lord’s land– possibly a last resort to feed his family. And on further investigation it was revealed that the man had six children, and an expectant wife, she needed medicienne for the baby and hadn’t eaten in weeks, he was planning to sell on whatever he caught to raise a measly sum of money. On learning this, Theodore dropped the charges, and gave the man a job on Chatsworth land, tending in the stables, and lowered the rent on one of the cottages for the family. Thomas learnt a most valuable lesson from this, as a boy of seven, that kindness could go a long way, and that the ramifications of thinking before one actions was always vital to bear in mind.


	87. Hearty Prepartions, Busy Duchesses and Underhanded Subterfuge of a Cruel Mother-in-Law...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I leave you with this teaser: Caroline's evil plan starts to take effect...

  

 

 

~ 7 days later, the Morning of the intended ball ~

 

Elizabeth didn’t think she had ever seen the house more abuzz with activity. Chatsworth was thrown out of its norms, and every pair of hands that could be had, was roped in to help. It was turning out to be the rage of the rumor mills, Iris had assured Elizabeth. As several of her closer friends from Castletown had been invited. Everyone invited, Elizabeth learned, was rejoicing in the news of the Lady Marie Ball being held once more – for the first time in 16 years. After the Chatsworth house went into mourning with the death of John Thatcher, ball’s had scarce been frequent. Though the family continued on in society, Chatsworth House was left to contain the family within, not to be a housing a social gathering. So it seems, _until now_.

For tonight, the grand old house would be packed to the gilded rafters with most of Derbyshire’s elite crowds. And presently, Elizabeth was wishing she had several more pairs of hands. She had been up since dawn seeing that everything was coming along swimmingly for tonight, and she had plenty of splendid helper’s, Iris, Edith, Violet, occasionally Judith, Araminta, and even Felicity all roped in to lend a hand to her when they were needed. At presently, Edith and Iris were helping Barkley select some flowers, which they would then arrange to be placed on various stands dotted around the ballroom. Araminta was spared to go and place Felicity’s hair in paper bows in readiness for tonight. She was sure Judith had tottered down the kitchens to assist Ethel – and quality control the food a great deal. And it didn’t surprise Elizabeth one bit, that Caroline had not so much as lifted a finger to aid her. Not that she would wish her too, after her sordid little speech the other day. She had been actively ignoring her ever since.

She was currently rushing through the house, being called back and forth to see to several things at once.

Things like, whether the candle holders looked _correct_ where they had been placed. If the silver was polished pleasingly _enough. If_ the gold draperies over the windows were _hanging_ correctly, and whether to place the brandy table to the _north_ corner? Or to the _south_ corner?, and whether the tipsy cake was a little _too tipsy_ , and _whether or not_  Ethel should make _another one..._

On and on, _and on_ , the questions came and they _didn’t falter._ She could barely walk _two_ paces without being accosted. _Was the white soup too thin?_ _Did the musician’s corner need rearranging? Did she want bluebells or foxgloves? Was the floor scrubbed clean enough?_

However, the faithful Mrs. Robson. The stout, reliable Housekeeper was now a permanent fixture by Elizabeth's side _, and thank heavens,_ because without her, Elizabeth feared she would have stressed herself into a teary, hormonal fit, _long_ ago.

“ _Now_ , the chaperones chairs, I’d like to make sure they line the ballroom floor walls _wherever_ there is space. Mrs. Robson, If what I learned from my days as a debutante, in London society there seemed to be a _perpetual_ shortage of chairs no matter _what_ the occasion. _Oh_ , careful with that candlestick, Betsy, that’s the one with one leg shorter than the rest, ask Wilkins where it should be placed, and tell him it should go preferably facing the wall, so it doesn’t topple on anyone...” Elizabeth rambled. “The _last thing_ I need tonight is one of our guests crushed flat by the _darn ornament_ …” Elizabeth smiles in a gabble.

Elizabeth turned back to Mrs. Robson, who noticed the blank look on the Duchess’s face, and considering how her mind and mouth was racing at a hundred miles a minute, thought to enlighten her upon the _certain_ thought she was trying hard - and failing - to locate.

“I shall have _extra_ Chaperone’s chairs brought in, Madam. Just so we don’t get caught short…” She helpfully explained. Elizabeth sighed thankfully, letting her eyes slide shut, and place her hand on Robson’s shoulder.

“If it weren’t for _your_ blessed assistance, Mrs. Robson, I’d sitting in the corner, a whinging, sobbing _wreck_ by now. I'm sure of it.”

Elizabeth assured her. Dodging a pair of housemaids who came storming past with great big stacks of linen piled high, ready to be deposited over the refreshment tables.

“It’s a _pleasure_ Madam. It’s been many a year passed since we held a ball here. You needn’t fret so.” She calmed the Duchess with a genuine smile.

She was a plump woman, but she carried herself as if she were no weightier than a feather. Her greying brown hair was ordered neatly into a strict bun, and as she was a senior member of the house, she wore a long black skirt that ended at her waist, along with a high collared, white blouse with capped shoulders, always with a broach centered at her neck. She had one for every day of the week, and all were family heirlooms. Today’s, was a typical black and white cameo broach with an ornate gold finish to trim the edge, that had once belonged to her great, great grandmother, Elizabeth had been informed. Mrs. Robson had a kind of face that had stood the test of time remarkably well. She had large cheeks which accommodated her small mouth which always seemed to be smiling. Her nose was small, as were her eyes, like sunken almonds on a cake. They were warm and kind, and looked at everyone lovingly. But she was a thing to be admired when she got cross, she could quite give a stern reprimand, especially through the cold glass of her half-moon spectacles which she sometimes wore, perched very low on her nose.

The two ladies, side by side, progressed further through the ballroom - Chatsworth’s orangery which would serve as the dance floor, leading through to the opposite ballroom for the banquet and refreshment room, both sides offering good views across Chatsworth’s gardens. The rose gardens to the east, and the maze and the orchard to the west. Elizabeth’s attention was captured by a soft shouting of her formal name, doubtless one of the housemaids. Today she was hearing ‘Madam’, ‘Mi’Lady’ and ‘Your Ladyship’, left right and center.

She turned to find Agnes, the kitchen maid rushing towards her, holding her skirts up, a silver platter in her hands. “If you please, Ma’am.” She huffed, her cheeks rosy with exertion from being down in the stifling hot Kitchen’s.

“Mrs. Elmstone asks for your blessing on the Biscuits for the ball…” She wheezed. Offering Elizabeth the small platter, which she took, and tasted, and it almost melted in her mouth. It was warm, buttery and perfectly golden.

“Very good. Tell her I shall be down presently to discuss the table arrangements…”

Agnes nodded frantically. And winced, also. 

“She says she will be busy for the next hour remaking the white soup...” Agnes explained.

Elizabeth tried not to sigh. This was the fifth time Ethel had decided her white soup was _not_ up to scratch as it ought to have been. It had been too thin, too thick, too burnt and too watery. And too many _other_ things for her to keep track.

“Ensure her, at this point, I don’t mind her putting  _poison_  in the white soup. Just, make sure there is _some form_ of broth in the silver soup terrine for this evening… At this point I don’t care if she puts _tea_ in there… so long as it is   _a._ hot, _b._ a fluid, and _c._   _finished._ Alright _?_  ” Elizabeth instructed.

“Very good Ma’am.” Agnes repeated.

“Oh, and Agnes? would you be so good and tell her that we _will_ be needing the venison served in the refreshment room after all. If she doesn't decide to _re-roast_ it in her fickleness...”

Elizabeth requested. Agnes gave a nod, and a bob of a curtsey, before she was off, trotting quickly back in the direction she had come scampering from.

Elizabeth wiped a hand over her brow. It was almost noon now, and she had been up since five helping to get everything prepared. It had been the same routine for nigh on a week now. Up at five, busy all day, she barely got time to eat, even less to sleep, and far, _far_ , less than that with which to spend time with her family, or her husband. She was beginning to forget what _he looked_ like. By the time he retired at ten each night, she had been fast asleep for two hours already, or, the other way round, often she wouldn’t make it into bed til gone midnight, and then she’d be up before he was. It was a _rotten_ schedule really.

Thomas hated it too. He'd roll over in bed to stroke the baby, and hug his beloved wife, and to his disappointment, she wouldn’t be there.

She was feeling the toll of her new roster take its potent effect now. Her feet were stabbing with throbbing pain, her back was niggling with an evil ache that wouldn’t desist. She was hungry, and thirsty and as tired as she had ever felt. There must have been dark grey bags under her eyes, which were now approximately the size of Belgium, she fancied.

She stood still for a second, just watching the ballroom buzz with busied life around her. She stretched her hand behind her and rubbed at the small of her back, briefly soothing the sharp ache that was seeming to take up a permanent residence there. Her weariness must’ve shown on her face like an open book, because Mrs. Robson stepped close to her and pressed a caring hand to her shoulder.

“Why don’t you go and sleep for a while Madam. You must be exhausted. You’ve been up before suns rise _every day_ this week.” Mrs. Robson pointed out. “It’s not good for the baby, running around as mad as you have been.” She tried to reprove.

Elizabeth smiled at the woman’s kindness. But she would not allow Caroline to see her defeated or crushed by this. Her courage always rose to brutally challenge every attempt at intimidation that was levelled against her.

“I’m alright. Thank you for the concern, but I’ll _soldier_ on.” She insisted.

They came across where the linen was being aired and placed on the tables which were soon to be dressed with flowers that Edith and Iris were gathering, and tying them into long garlands for use on the tables for her as they spoke. Elizabeth dived in to provide succor in airing the linens that had been festering in the attics for sixteen years, after a good wash and a beating they looked as white and as good as new, if still a little musty. Whilst she aided the housemaids, Mrs. Robson helped affixing a wonky golden sheet music stand which was destined for the musician’s corner when it was mended.

Elizabeth coughed as she shook one sheet and a wave of dust billowed up into the air, luckily, the floor would be swept and scrubbed once more before the guests arrived. She wiped a lock of unruly hair off her forehead, not knowing that this left a streak of muggy grey dust to streak across her brow. She looked down and saw with dismay that she was also covered in it down her front too, plain as day all across her simple blue wool dress. She flapped another sheet in front of her, narrowing her eyes as more dust was thrown into the air. When she lowered the linen from obscuring her eyesight, she nearly jumped back a foot into the air.

Thomas had suddenly materialized in front of her. At her shock, his dark brows shot up his hairline, and he examined her with amusement in his eyes, and his mischievous smile.

“We have to stop meeting in this manner, Miss Farrow.” He smiled.

Despite the pains in her feet, back and her neck. Also notwithstanding how she felt dirty, dusty tired and she was sure she looked about _as appealing_ as she _felt,_ her whole body lightened on looking at him. She stood looking like the perfect picture of mud and grime, speckled with dirt and tiredness, and he stood there, in a blue waistcoat the colour of sapphires, neat white cravat pressed, shirt crisp, black breeches and boots spotless and his hair artfully arranged, as lovely and fresh as a bush full of butterflies. She did something she was sure she hadn’t done for a week now, between worrying and planning, and rushing round like a manwoman, she smiled.

“No one’s called me by that name for a very, _very_ , long time.”

She smiled back at his japing, gathering the linen into her arms to fold it in half, ready to be taken into the other room. For the refreshment table.

“May I draw your attention to the fact, that this has been our first two sided conversation in _five_ days…”

He points out. His hands going behind his back as he stood tall and resolute like a human lamp post. A shaft of afternoon sunlight broke through the crowds and caught him as he stood there, sparkling in his eyes, and glinting off his father’s silver watch fob chain linked across his front. And streaked silver onto his darker than ink hair.

Elizabeth carried on folding, smiling at his presence, but not halting, not even for a second in her work. She hadn’t been able to _afford_ time to stop.

“Are you expecting me to offer an apology for the mere crime of hard work?” She asked with a smile.

He gave her a teasing, reproving kind of a look. The one he had mastered now, as a concerned husband with a stubborn redhead for a wife.

“Not in the slightest. I was merely stating that this is the first time I’ve had to understand how _obsolete_ I’ve become to you as of late…” He informed.

“Well. After tonight, your _obsoleting_ will cease. You may go back to having a full time, pregnant wife. Because if this is all the measures _just one_ ball takes, I shan’t want to throw another one next year…” She explained. “ _Nor_ for another eighty years come to think of it…” She adds.

“And did I mention I was _concerned_ …” He spoke up, not finished.

“With what? _Dearest?_ ” She asks.

“The fact that it should be my mother running about like a headless farm animal planning this _infernal_ event, instead of you. Who, may I point out have bags darker than spades under your eyes, _and_ must be worn thin to almost pure exhaustion by now…” He predicts.

“I’m _fine.”_ Elizabeth insisted with a terse smile.

“Darling…” He spoke with weight and command to his tone, that made her stop and listen. She put down the linens in front of her, mainly because he clasped her hands.

“ _No one_ is going to think any less of you, for going and having a respite, or going to sit down, even _just_ for an hour. To sit in an armchair, rest yourself, because tonight won’t be _any the less_ taxing and I don’t want you pushed to your limits. You’re with my child, Elizabeth, and you need to take care of the both of you… _You two_ are my privilege and my priority. Not this _stupid,_ ball.”

“I will not allow your mother to think she has won this over me.” Elizabeth ground out harshly, continuing her chores. “And I have put far too much effort into this ball to appreciate you calling it _stupid_ …” She admonished in a flat, dry tone.

“That _is not_ what I was implying.” He said strictly.

“I know what you’re capable of, Elizabeth. You could take a barnyard and turn it into Versailles with your bare hands in a day, if you set your mind to it. I’m only asking that you take the time to put it aside, leave it in Mrs. Robsons very capable hands for the time being, and go and look after _yourself,_ even if for _twenty goddamned_ minutes…” He stipulates.

Elizabeth took a deep, calming breath, and turned to face him.

“The preparations are nearly complete. _And_ I will not _rest_ until they are done.”

She presses. Looking straight ahead. When she turned to the side, she found he was grinding his jaw together, which made that vein in his neck start to become prominent. As it always did when he got angered.

“What did the doctor say about not overexerting yourself?” Thomas spoke lowly. Moving closer now so the servants wouldn’t overhear their growing spat.

“Thomas, at the moment, _you_ are the one whose overexer- _Ohhhh-._ ”

She began to snap, but couldn’t finish her words for a small gasp of pain that bubbled up out of her throat made her stop dead, she swayed forwards, the pain, a cramping, unpleasant sharp burst radiating upwards from her belly, one hand went to her stomach, the other clamped to the table in front of her as she leaned forwards. The heat of the argument was forgotten for the moment, clod panic and fear replaced their anger. Thomas shot forwards, one hand on her back, the other reaching round to rub her belly. Fear stricken words tumbled from the Duke’s mouth before he could stop them.

“What’s wrong? Is it the baby? Wh-what is it?” He asked, trying to soothe her.

The staff closest to her, also lurched forwards, with cries or gasps, calling _“Mi’Lady?”_ to her, in enquiry, and reaching out to steady her as if she would suddenly swoon.

Elizabeth found her footing once more, and put her arms out, laying them by her sides to wave people away, insisting that she was alright. She straightened herself up and took a few breaths, aware that everyone’s eyes were still fixed on her.

“I’m-…” She began.

“ _Fine?_ ” Thomas asked sharply.

Elizabeth daggered him a look which verged on being mildly annoyed. She didn’t need him fussing about her like she was made of porcelain. She was made of tough mettle. She was pregnant, that didn’t warrant condescension or patronization. She’d rest, when she decided she needed to rest.

“I should like to remind you, Thomas, that you needn’t treat me like I’m made of _glass_ and liable to _shatter_ at any second. I will rest, when _I want_ to rest, and not because everyone thinks I’ll keel over from a bit of exertion and hard work...” She spoke resolutely.

Thomas didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Spoken like a truly stubborn Duchess of nobility…” He said stiffly.

“And was that a slur coming from the wounded pride of a man who’s become _so used_ to getting what he wants?” She asked with fire in her voice.

“Thomas, _who_ are you? _Oh.”_

Came a voice from behind them, calling across to them from the opposite side of the orangery. The voice was haughty, and the tone irrevocably rude. That’d be Caroline Kenworthy then. Elizabeth turned to see the woman who made her sour mood, a lot sourer _._ And this was not helped by the fact that a person she had very little desire to see in her home, was happily smiling by the Dowagers side.

Miss Anabelle Hastings.

Caroline sneered as she drew near. Draped in a fine dress, and Anabelle was looking as pretty as a dream of heaven in a lace trimmed sage green gown, with elegant lace kid gloves on her hands. Their fine made up beauty only serves to remind Elizabeth how grubby and unsightly her own looks were. Plus, she hated the fact that Caroline had a sneer on her lips, and smug pride in her malicious eyes. The two ladies drew to a stop in front of Elizabeth and Thomas. Both smiling proudly and smugly in a way that made the Duchess feel quite _sick._

“Goodness, Elizabeth. I didn’t recognize you then. Why did you know your gown _is exactly_ the same colour as the _servants?_ ”

“How _intriguing_ …” The Duchess commented drily. Before turning to resume her duties, placing her back to the woman.

“Do see to it that you clean yourself up before the ball, if you get any _dirtier_ we should have to confine you to the _stables_ …” Caroline sneered, laughing at her. Whats worse, was that Anabelle joined in on the laughter.

Elizabeth whipped a sheet harshly in the air, so it made a tight ' _crack_ ' sound as she did. A sound she rather wished was Caroline’s neck snapping as she wrapped her fingers round her throat and choked the very life out of her.

“Anyway, Thomas if your _Dusty Duchess_ has no use of you…” Caroline began, as Anabelle tittered heartily at the jape.

“…You are coming and take tea with Anabelle and I, and leave Elizabeth here to finish her _chores…_ She won’t be required to attend in the state she’s in. She’s _hardly_ fit to be seen.” She demanded, mocking her still.

“Actually, I think-“ He began, to refuse his mother’s orders, not giving up until his wife was rested in a chair with something calming to drink. Her gasping in pain not moments ago had frightened the life out of him.

“By all means, _go._ ” Elizabeth spoke up, not turning to look at her acerbic mother-in-law, and the repulsive young airhead stood by her side.

Thomas turned to look at her, she didn’t meet his gaze, but she could tell those eyes were piercing into her. Blazing with a combination of anger and bewilderment.

“Excuse me?” Thomas asked Elizabeth.

“Just _go_ , Thomas.” She repeated flatly. “I have no use for you here.” She spoke curtly.

When he didn’t move, Anabelle slid forwards and looped her arm through his, spinning him about to lead him out of the orangery, away with her and Caroline. When Elizabeth saw the girl touch her husband’s arm, pain flared up anew inside her, but she didn’t make a sound.

“You heard the woman, Thomas. Let’s leave her be, you can come and tell me all about Edith and her library.” Anabelle giggled coquettishly. As if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

Thomas had not taken his eyes from his wife.

“ _Oh. F_ _or god’s sake_.” Elizabeth barked.

“ _Just, go_. Go and drink your bloody tea, and leave well enough alone.” She snapped to the three of them, before turning and moving further up the table away from the merry party.

“Come you two, the _bloody tea_ will be getting cold.”

Caroline sneered in mockery, meeting Elizabeth’s eyes, and looking proud and as cruel as ever as she saw Anabelle and Thomas follow behind her.

She seemed to shrug as if to say ‘ _Don’t look at me, I didn’t orchestrate this, but look how perfectly it just happened to turn out’_

Though Anabelle looked like she was in seventh heaven on his arm, she preened and strutted, giggling away in merriment. Whereby Thomas looked hurt and surly. There was frost in his eyes as he turned away.

Elizabeth heard their parting words as they glided away. Caroline parading the two of them about as if they were to be _married._

“Did you see her bodice, Caroline? Encrusted in dust and grime? Positively medieval. I wager she’d make a fine _maid_ here _…_ ” Anabelle giggled gleefully. Still hanging merrily off Thomas’s arm as they strode away.

“And she looks very _plump_ around the middle now. _Very fat_ with child, indeed.” The girl added.

_If it wasn’t bad enough swanning away with her husband, making a perfect exhibition of herself, no, she had to go and insult Thomas’s child too._

Caroline laughed, a bright, chirpy laugh, and the sound was worse than any mocking, snarling insult she could dig. Because she was laughing _directly at_ Elizabeth, and made _no show_ of supposing she wasn’t.

“I must say, you two look positively, _darling,_ together. I hope you’ll be a gentleman and engage a few dances with Anabelle tonight Thomas?” Caroline asked with the widest smile of a proud mother, slash match maker.

He merely glared daggers at his mother.

“My card is completely empty, Thomas. You may have me for whatever you should like…” Anabelle flirted. Smiling demurely up at him. He made no move to try and smile back.

Elizabeth swallowed, waiting to hear their footsteps shuffle off out of sight. Before she crumpled the linen in front of her into a ball, slamming it onto the table top. She tore out of the room, and many concerned members of staff watched her go. The Dowager had been ruthlessly cruel, mocking and taunting her right before her very eyes. And Thomas hadn’t even said _a word. Not a one._

She hurried herself off into a quiet corner, before she was overcome. Hot tears prickled her eyes, and she let them. She stood, looking out of a window, sniffling as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Lip wobbling as she looked off across the gardens. She detested crying at hurtful remarks, usually she’d fight fire with fire. But she was too hormonal, sore, and dog-tired to do anything but stand there and let them abuse her.

“Madam?” Came a soft coo from behind her.

She turned to find Mrs. Robson behind her, looking concerned and empathetic for her, holding out a laced hankie. Which she took with a grateful smile, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

“Pay them _no heed_ , Madam. They don’t deserve a shred of your concern, if you ask me.”

She bristled. And Elizabeth had a feeling that if she said she wished Mrs. Robson to go and stomp on their toes, the woman was so loyal, she’d do it _twice_ for good measure.

Elizabeth sniffled, and smiled.

“What else needs tending too?” She asked bravely.

Mrs. Robson smiled at her courage.

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth, when she originally intended to marry Marcus Burke. She used to have day dreams of a handsome savior coming to her rescue and sweeping her off her feet away from his innapropriate drunken advances. In her wildest fantasies, she always saw her ideal man as a tall, muscular blonde. A little like Leonardo Da Vinci’s, David, or a Greek Adonis. She never considered that she’d ever meet her dark and dashing prince charming. And certainly not so opportunely over the family dinner table one night, either.


	88. Thoughtful Men, Foot Massages and Wicked Girls...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff, pure, fluff here...

 ~

 

 

Finally, gleefully, after a couple more hours of strenuous help and effort, Elizabeth finds that everything that needed to be attended to, had been done. And willingly, she is steered to the nearest salon by Mrs. Robson, coerced into the blue parlour, and left in ultimate peace and quiet next to a roaring fire, and a veritably hill sized plate of biscuits, and a large pot of tea. She was cheerfully persuaded into the room, with the personal assurance from Mrs. R, that the staff would finish off all the little, trifling tasks that were left to be completed. Edging the Duchesses’ mind into the territory of some much deserved rest.

She gladly flopped onto the blue velvet chaise and eased off her shoes, which were starting to pinch her swollen feet, she finds the tea has already been poured for her, and she takes a long sip, draining the tiny cup in one mouthful. She nibbled the edge of a biscuit, but was ultimately too tired to pay her hunger it’s fully deserved attention.

She let her hand drop the half eaten snack back onto the plate, as she stroked her belly, feeling the aches and pains of her body already start to ease. She wiped a hand over her dusty face, rubbing a knuckle into her dust filled eyes which felt a little heavy. She didn’t want to move from her spot for anything in the world, next to the amber glow of a fire, and with a shaft of sunshine from the window hitting her squarely on the legs, she pulls her feet up, and slouches back. Lying down on the chaise, onto the bundle of pillows below her head. And before she realizes it, the warm contented radiance of the fire, which made her lids heavy, consumed her, and she fell as easy prey to her tiredness.

She awoke, not long after, to the most pleasant sensation spreading through her body. Her mouth feeling sticky and dry from sleep, and her eyes, which had earlier felt red and rimmed with dust, now felt a little heavy, but otherwise improved for a dose of rest.

She wiggled her toes, and realized the blissful feeling spreading through her calves is warm, and felt like a gentle caress, and upon further inspection, she noticed that aswell as feeling heavenly, she could feel her tender muscles relax in manipulation, as if someone were touching her. She opened her eyes a little wider, and found to her sleepy surprise, that she was _no longer_ alone.

She woke up a little quicker, seeing Thomas perched on the opposite end of the chaise.

He had gathered her stockinged feet to slope into his lap, and he busied himself by kneading and rubbing the tired, overworked muscles, she watched as his long fingers curled themselves deep into the raw muscles of her feet, hitting all the right tender spots that needed soothing, before working up and gently squeezing her calves, his hands were so deliciously warm. She meant to jerk her feet away, and kick him squarely in the ribs for his behavior earlier, but she can’t fathom her anger. His hands were too skillful. And it felt too good to reject.

She settled for an angry sigh, letting him know she hadn’t forgotten about earlier.

“How did you know this was exactly what I needed?” She asked in a mumbled groan of pleasure, her voice croaky, unused from sleep.

“Doctor Thornton recommended this to be very soothing. And I did it for Iris too, when she was with child. I remember her saying how good it felt on swollen ankles.”

He spoke slowly. Hitting a delicate spot that made her mewl in contentment. Still sprawled back, she made no move to right herself, the moment was too warm, cozy and intimate to spoil by adjusting her position.

“Iris is a very clever woman...” She moaned happily. “Remind me to send her my thanks…” Elizabeth commanded in a soft husk.

They were silent after that, save for the sound of a ticking clock on the mantel, and the fire roaring away beside them. The sunshine still hit her, a little higher up on the legs now, as it had moved, now warming her knees under her blue skirts. And she just watches, almost hypnotized by the mesmerizing sight of her husband’s divine hands spoiling her feet with pleasure. They didn’t speak. And nor did they have too. They were people contented to be in the company of the other. Yet, Elizabeth’s mind was too curious and hurt, to stay silent forever.

“How was tea with Anabelle and Caroline?” She found herself wondering aloud.

He rolled her right ankle round in a slow circle, before he looked ahead into the now dying flames, and kept on looking there as he answered.

“I _wouldn’t_ know.” He answered truthfully. “My mother isn’t in a mood to _talk_ to me at present. _Thank-the-lord.”_ He spoke honestly.

Elizabeth blinked at him. And he turned to face her, a small proud smile on his face as he did. That was the look that was searching for an explanation from him, and one that urged him to find it, and to relieve her of her wondering.

“After my mother’s sordid behavior towards you, and Anabelle’s vile display. When we got to the red salon, I very impolitely told them that I didn’t desire to spend another second with such a loathsome pack of abominable women. I told them they were being rude, and disrespectful and should feel ashamed of themselves, were I so sure that they had the capacity to feel pity _at all_. Then I said I would dance with Anabelle tonight, if I _absolutely had too_ , but beyond that, I want _no such_ association with such a foul, wicked mannered girl, such as _she_.” He explained, then, well…. I, turned around, walked away, finally found and caught up with a very busy looking Mrs. R. to see where you’d got to, found you, and have been rubbing your feet ever since…” He smiled.

Elizabeth smiled unbelievingly at him. How could she have been angry at this charming, delightfuly thoughtful creature? She never wanted to have a spat with him again. She had hated every second. But, she was willing to let their dispute die, and un-aired death. For now, and just enjoy the intimacies that came with having such a fine example of a husband.

“Whatever will your mother say to that?” She said after a few seconds of silence.

“A _great_ deal, I fear…” He smiles, beaming, and so did she.

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iris can play the Cello, Pianoforte, Violin and the Harp. She would have taken one of them up a profession to play concert halls, but doesn’t like too since John’s death. He always liked watching and listening to her play her instruments. And she hasn’t picked any of them up, nor looked at them ever since his funeral. Now her old music room is kept locked and collecting nothing but dust.


	89. The Dreaded Ball, Conniving Debutantes, and the Dastardly Scehemes of Rakish Earls...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three things, sweet readers, will happen at this ball:
> 
> 1\. Someone will end the night with a broken and shattered heart...  
> 2\. Someone will reveal the true monstrosities of their horrid character...  
> 3\. Someone will learn that infatuation is a heavy price they will sorely pay for...
> 
> trigger warnings: indecent assault, and sadness expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeings as pictures say a thousand words, I'll leave several of these teasers here whilst I write...

 

 

 

 

 

It was widely known, in both Derbyshire and all decent London society, that Elizabeth Kenworthy was not a woman so blighted with the inclination to crow too loudly over her successes. Nor did she suffer the afflications of being weighted down by false modesty. Most young women who’d pulled off what she had accomplished - _in a single week she hastened to add_ \- would crow, and fuss, and coquetteishly deny that it was any extraordinary _ounce_ of effort on their part. (Then again, they _\- most likely_ \- hadn’t anything to prove to a vile harpy of a mother-in-law.) _No_. The Duchess of Chatsworth did not hide behind, nor find pleasure, such shallow denial.

The ball looked _wonderful_ – if she declared so by her own merit.

Every room was as decadant a scene of golden extravagence if ever she had seen one. The golden draperies across, and hanging down, by each tall window caught by the amber candles which flickered up the gilded baroque walls of the orangery. Everywhere the eye looked, there was something pleasing to be found. WHeteher this was in the flourish and spin of the dancers arcing their way across the black and white tiled floor, skating across the floor almost as If they were floating, in graceful ease to the music, which erupted from the musicians corner with gusto and no light handed talent on their part. Elizabeth was stood off to the side, happily watching the soaring skirts and fine dress of the male dancers on the floor. The wonderful array of silks and fripperies on ladies dresses, a veritable spectrum of colour, layered into tulle, silk and organza. It was a happy sight to watch.

She had just finished making her rounds, she had lost Thomas long ago, swallowed up into old acqquaintances, shaking hands and answering questions as to his marriage and the oncoming heir. She had seen Iris not too long ago, talking animatedly to Reverend Everett, and rightfully so. Rupert Farrell was here, too, somewhere amongst the crowds, but a card table, rather than her sister-in-law had taken his ulterior fancy. Violet had made the association with a strapping young soldier named Cartwright. Sir Carlton, she noticed, wasn’t surrounded by his usual swarm of low witted, female admirers, in actual fact, he looked a trifle lonely, watching the dancers, his eyes lingering a little too singularly on Violet to let Elizabeth think there was nothing between them. Which certainly provided her food for thought. Every time Violet laughed at something the amiable Cartwright had said, Benedict’s eyes narrowed.

Caroline’s hefty list of invitee’s had extended towards the Military camp, the 95th foot infantry regiment, who were quartered just outside Castletown for the Winter, quite an exciting rarity for some of the _sillier_ debutantes in the room.

One of whom, earlier, Elizabeth was witness as a particularly frail girl exclaimed urgent faintness overwhelm her, and had swooned into a suspicously graceful heap at the mere sight of men in uniform, expecting to land in the comforting arms of her friend – who swiftly ducked and let her associate flop to the floor like a sack of grain, and then scurried off – a tad too eagerly - to find the nearest vinegriette to shove under her fallen comrades nose. The soldiers were a Nothern regiment, and each one of them lively fun, and took great pleasure in being considered fit for such a important social gathering, she had been politely accosted many times by an enthusiastic young soldier, to take to the dance floor. But she had declined. Her feet were beginning to ache sorely after the toll of her mad day.

Thomas had been right, if she thought preparations were taxing, it was _nothing_ to the actuality of the ball happening around her.

She had still been flitting about like a small bird making sure things were running smoothly. She had passed by the refreshment tables, bidding a louder than usual greeting to the elderly – _and inherently deaf_ \- Duke of Charlbury, who had travelled over from the next county especially for this ball. She swept past the drink’s table, and informed Wilkins to stealthily _water down_ the brandy where Charlbury was concerned, lest he wasn’t able to walk to his carriage come the end of the evening. At the rate he was hicupping per second at present, she wondered whether or not he’d make it to the other side of the _room_ under his own steam. It was something to take into consideration for her next turn about the room to check upon things.

She made her face known about the meal tables, and saw that everything there too was satisfactory, Ethel’s food was going down a treat with the guests. She took silent satisfaction in knowing that she had an excellently trained fleet of staff, and that this was well portrayed in the fact she felt obsolete in having to give any more orders. With this taken into mind, she manages to snag herself a glass of cordial, offering greetings and good tidings as she went, and strode back into the orangery to retire to the matrons and chaperones chairs at the side of the room to watch the dancers, rest her swollen feet, and revel in the atmosphere of other peoples enjoyment.

So, there she sat. Alone for the moment, reflecting on all that had brought her here. It seemed incovievable to her, that she had started this year as a strong minded, sharp tongued and long toothed spinster who’d seen too many winter’s to be considered a spring chicken any longer. She looked to her left to see two young girls, obviously in one another’s confidence, possibly they were even best friends, and they were talking secretly, smiling and admiring the men and women dancing the polka on the tiled floor. It was unthinkable, that not months previously, she had been one of those girls, in awe of other, more beautiful, accomplished, titled or married women, and longed for the days when – and if –they’d be lucky enough to become one of them. To peel off their youth, and flourish into womanhood. When truth was, they might find themselves courted, engaged and wed, all in all, and not feel a day older than the feeling of being the dreaming debutante girls still sat at the fringes of ballrooms, remarking on how it would be so fine, to live the lives of those lucky few.

Maybe it was the long day taking it’s toll on her, or perhaps it was that she was so bone weary, or hormonal in her state, but, something about her mood then, dropped a little. She felt a little melancholy. Just one of those odd moments in life, when surrounded by an abundance of activity and energy, how someone can still manage to feel miles and leagues away from any civilisation and company.

She sighed, and it wasn’t content, but it wasn’t sadness either, it lay somewhere on the indistinguishable territory inbetween.

She smoothed a hand down her gown. It wasn’t her finest, it wasn’t show stopping. That was the reason she had selected it in all honesty, the last thing she had wanted to do tonight was exude frippery and fuss. It was a simple dress, It was a mixture of cream and gold, it shimmered almost the colour of wheat in the light, in contrast to her white elbow kid gloves. The dress showed off her pale shoulders, and plunged decadently into a ‘V’ shaped neckline, elegantly baring her corseted bust, the bodice of the dress finely structured so she didn’t need to wear a corset for the baby’s sake, but still slimmed her figure as best it could. It was elegantly stitched with flowers that matched the shade of her cream skirts, and her ivory shoes and stockings. Her hair she had quickly arranged herself, pinned away from her eyes, but now, straggled and curls of it swayed into her eyes, her neck, and past her ears. The only jewellry she wore was a glittering diamond necklace, studded with jewels, to match the ones that sat in her earlobes. Her look tonight was plain, as the last thing she wished to do was to stand out. If at all possible, she wanted to blend into the gilded walls behind her. Become one with the candle fixtures and the baroque trim on the walls.

“Penny for them, Mrs K...” Came a staccato voice beside her.

She looked up to see – who else – but Ophelia tottering out of the throngs of people, making her way towards the Duchess. Elizabeth smiled, shuffling up and vacating a wide berth for Ophelia to fit her bony body onto the seat. Though she was a small woman, she swung her walking cane with a strength that belied her size, and age. She often didn’t use her cane, except for at ball’s. That meant she was finely equipt to prod, poke, and if absolutely necessary, _batter,_ people out of her path. And she always made a beeline for people she found interesting, and clipped the toes of those whom she didn’t. Because of the weapon she carried with her, everyone who was wise enough to have two functional braincells to rub together, quickly dived aside to allow her a clean path through, praying it wasn’t _them_ whom she would stop and assualt with her wit and conversation. The Duchess laughed as the room, because of Ophelias reputation preceding her, parted quickly like the red sea in terror of the old biddy.

“I don’t think any thought of mine is worth that much this evening…” Elizabeth smiled, patting the seat beside her.

“That’s very polite, but had you _not_ moved, Mrs K, you’d have felt the force of my cane on those pretty toes of yours…”

She leered with a toothy grin, creaking her old bones down to rock onto the chair, and rest with both hands curled across one another on the black hawthorne cane, polished, and topped with a silver parrots head to form the arc of the handle.

Tonight, the elder woman wore a plum pink gown, draped of silk, with bright green stockings, and blue buckled and heeled silk shoes, with a many strings of brilliant white pearls laying like balconies across her bony neck, Across her shoulders and her slightly hunched back, she wore a truly hideous fur shawl thrown on her shoulders, some poor grey and white creature, paws and head still attatched, flopping lifelessly, at her sides, like a companion that had lost the will to cling onto life. Mind, if she were the poor carcass being swathed about Ophelias shoulder’s, she’d wish to be out of the land of the living and consequence too. On her emanciated hands, she had her bright yellow velvet gloves, and so many jewels and rings sparkling on her fingers, and her matchstick thin wrists, Elizabeth was amazed she had the strength with which to lift her skinny arms. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, ambers and too many other stones to recognise, all slotted onto her skeletal fingers. Her snowy hair, that looked like silver elastic, was gathered back into an artless bun, strands that didn’t reach confinement feathered lightly into her face.

Elizabeth smiled at the old woman.

“Luckily, I know you too well. I had anticipated your being armed tonight, _if indeed,_ you elected to show up, _at all_.” She remarked as they watched the dancers cavort and sweep in front of them.

“Couldn’t afford not to be. There’s several forms of dangerously acute stupidity lurking about this ballroom tonight. I couldn’t risk running into it with my _bare_ hands…” She gruffed in a dismal tone. Slamming her cane down on the floor for effect. So much so, it made the debutantes around them all, _flinch._

“Something tells me you’d _manage_. Even _sans_ cane.” Elizabeth grinned at her aunt.

“You _do_ know me, then?”

Ophelia smiled, slanting her mossy eyes to the Duchess, looking with something that attempted affection, at her grand niece. Her eyes reminded Elizabeth of currants that had sunk deep into a cake, glinting dark and menacing in the light. That usual air of cheekiness and wisdom lurking, looming, in their depths.

“Afraid so. As much as you’d like to wish yourself to be unpredicatble.” Elizabeth warns.

“As long as airheaded men and women remain casting themselves aside in my oncoming path, I think I shall allow my nearest family to think of me as cordial, and proper character.” She explained.

“No one who knows you intimately would never go so far as to be _that_ reckless with their opinions.” Elizabeth promised.

“I _do_ so enjoy you..” Ophelia commented

“I’d hate to think what _horrific fate_ I would be in for if you didn’t.” Elizabeth smiled. Two seconds with the crass old woman, and her mood was lifted. She was an amazing tonic to any situation, as she had once so claimed.

“Something very tragic.” Ophelia assured.

Elizabeth nodded. She hadn’t expected anything less. _It would be a tragedy to rival the greeks, surely._

“ _Now._ ”

She barked. Thumping her cane on the floor for emphasis. Again, the debutantes lining the left and the right of them, _winced_ , at the action. Clearly they knew of the woman.

“Tell me about Iris and that Godly fellow…”

She admonished into Elizabeth’s ear, leaning close. With Ophelia, one must be prepared for the conversation to be considerably similar in tone to that of a reprimand. This was not any form of admonition. That _was just_ the way she was. She inclined her head towards where Iris and Hugh were smiling at one another on the dancefloor. Twirling a waltz together in perfect time.

“She hasn’t smiled like that since John you know. _Oh,_ of course, she’s made play of being perfectly fine, but away from those _gels_ of hers, that smile has _never_ reached her eyes. I’ve noticed, however, whenever she is in the company of _that chap_ , her eyes are like _candles,_ And her smile positively glows with radiance.” Ophelia intoned, rather poetically.

Elizabeth watched the pair of them, dancing, pressed close enough to be considered modest and decent. But the infatuation which lingered in their eyes and smiles, hinted at perhaps otherwise. To anyone who did not know them, It would look as if they were courting or engaged.

“I think, they suit each other. They have both known sadness. Hugh perhaps may understand her grief better than we can. And, they are very similar in temper.” Elizabeth supposed.

“They esteem each other then?” Ophelia asked.

Elizabeth nodded. Watching them still.

“ _Good_. We need a little more of that around here. I know you and Mr. K are like a shakespeare duo with your love and professions….” She tutted.

This made Elizabeth smile, and roll her eyes at the same time.

“…But it would _do her well_ to have someone to make her laugh again. Better than Caroline trying to press that Audley twit on the _poor gel_. Her trouble is, she’s too withdrawn to stand up to, and say _’No’_ the old dragon.”

“And he’s not exactly a _grand_ match for her…” Elizabeth growled.

“But he is rich, and boasts one of the oldest peerages in the land.” Ophelia muttered. “That’s like Caroline’s meal ticket.” She explained.

Elizabeth blinked.

“Do go on…” She said stiffly.

“Caroline knows very well Thomas won’t much longer put up with her frivolity and spending. She’s feathering for her own nest. Nothing more. She knows she won’t get a single _penny_ of Kenworthy money from either Thomas, or Iris. And since he married you, my dear gel, it will all fall to your bloodline, in the children you and he will sire. They will be heirs, and better yet, heirs that boot Caroline _out_ of fortune…” She explained.

Elizabeth was on the edge of her seat listening to this.

“But, Caroline is nothing, if not a ruthless, cold blooded, strategist. If she could, _buy_ someone’s favour, I don’t know, say one of the most illustrous titles that England’s Earldom’s boasts of, then, if Iris were to marry outside of the family, into that title, she could take sore advantage of such a timid spirit that the gel has. She can extort money from Iris and her rich husband to suit her own needs, and not have to fret about being penniless. Plus, let’s not forget, Audley is _no_ saint. He has a title, but needs a rich, blue blooded, bride to combine the Kenworthy dowry with his dwindling estate. He gains a nubile, pretty and ignorable young wife. The comfort of absorbing her fortune, and Caroline, already in cahoots with the man, gets her share of the money.” Ophelia spelled out.

Elizabeth felt sick. Now, possibly knowing where some of Caroline’s hatred was directed from. It all made sense. Her alliance with the name of Kenworthy, knocked out any hope Caroline had of contending to the families land and money. Any of such, now, would go to the heir inside her. And as Thomas had so lovingly informed her, the other day, the estate, the ground, the wealth, was all settled, _on her_ , in any event if the heir did not wish to take it.

“I think he was in some pretty deep muck of _the inelegant_ kind, you know, across the chanell. And I’m no so uncertain that Caroline saw this, and leapt on it so he would be in her debt. Rumour has it, after the war, he fled to spain to avoid being accosted by his superiors. Better to flee the coop, than to answer to his crimes…” She carried on.

“What crimes?” Elizabeth enquired.

“He’s an army deserter, you know.” Ophelia told her.

Elizabeth turned to her aunt with bulging eyes and a slack open mouth. Looking similar to a brain deadened goldfish.

“A _deserter?_ ” She confirms.

“ _Oh_ , The Earl of Audley was an officer. He was in the Hampshire regiment. Led his troops out under heavy fire, got _one whiff_ of battle, and backed out, back to the starting line with his tail between his legs. Left several men for dead under the teeth of musket and enemy fire. Took one look at them, and didn’t so much _as turn_ his head to offer the courtesy of saving them.” She hushed. “His father was disgraced, died a year later, and cut him, the eldest and _only_ son, out of the will, the Audley name was ruined, sold off the land and the money went to the next cousin.”

Elizabeth swallowed, all this newfound gossip making her head spin.

“So, you think the Earl of Audley is in Caroline’s debt? _Why?_ What could she possibly offer him? from what I understand of her finances, she could barely afford to get back to England, let alone pay off _anything else_ …” Elizabeth predicted.

“I don’t know If she paid his off his debts, or what. All I know is, that man and Carolines appearance are _too sudden,_ and too _close_ to be under any _guise_ of coincidence…”

“The universe is rarely so _neatly organised_.” Elizabeth adds.

“My thoughts _precisely_.”

Ophelia nodded, narrowing her eyes and looking devilish and cunning. As sly as an old fox all old fables warned against.

“I do admire you a fountain of knowledge. How _do_ you come by such information?” Elizabeth wonders.

Ophelia banged her cane harshly on the floor once more. And then she gave a wicked grin. Like the leering smile of a bare skull.

Elizabeth nodded in silent understanding.

“It wasn’t acquired without a pointed question, or two, and a _slight_ amount of exertion on my end.”

“In other words, several people are now sporting _purple toes_ for their troubles?” She asked.

Ophelia looked remarkably pleased with herself. Her weathered old face gleaming with the unspoken expression that said ‘ _just so’_

“No army deserter will _so easily_ gain admittence to my grand-nieces side. Atleast, not without my _severe_ disapproval and the harshest objection I can muster, becoming known. And whilst I still breathe and reign with all my remaining marbles socketed firmly into my head. The name of Audley _shall not_ so _lightly_ be connected with this, good, honest family.”

Ophelia assured the Duchess with a smile, that, to anyone elses eyes would have looked disconcerting. But to Elizabeth, right at that moment, it was like seeing a light at the end of a dark tunnell, knowing she was not so terribly alone in her opinion and fear after all.

Elizabeths face split into a hearty grin. Ophelia too saw how affectionately Iris and Hugh were examining one another. Knowing it was an affection that ran deeper than _mere_ friendship. And clearly, fearing that Caroline was intending to extort and use her for ill means, via a rakish Earl, she had sought to gather some inelligence from the modicum of societys clutches, here tonight. Elizabeth realised that whilst she thought Ophelia to be a martyr to fear of her razor sharp wit, and was well known for being so unbearably pitiless by most everyone in all polite, high ranking society.

In that moment, she knew that It was all a ploy, for a woman who had been around for too long to see too many people used ill or taken advantage of. To see too many loveless marriages, and emotionless matches under the pretence of love, and who, sporting violent offence as her armour, and had ferocity and unkindess driving at her helm, underneath it all, she actually was a frail little thing, who was _deeply_ devoted and passionate to caring after her family. And the people she loved most dearly.

Some people would curse their luck for having a batty great aunt like her. Wondering what _use_ she served, if but to totter around, speak madly and have little care to all types of consequence. But, Elizabeth henceforth from this day forwards, would count her _every_ stars and blessings that she was married to a family, with such a dedicated relative amongst its ranks.

The Duchess clasped the elderly womans hands. Squeezing as tight as she dared to such old, frail bones. Suddenly overcome by dutiful warmth toward her.

“It’s nice not to be _alone_.” She smiled. Meaning the statement in more than just one way.

Ophelia retracted one hand from the pile, and laid it atop Elizabeth’s.

“It’s jolly affirming to know ones good opinion is a popular one, and not an idle fancy.” She agreed.

“All the more worth _believing_ , I feel.” Elizabeth added.

Ophelia nodded, that glimmer of pride back in her eyes now,

“I’d better go and make the rounds again.” Elizabeth decided, rocking her body out of the comfort of the seat, shuffling onto her aching feet.

“See if Wilkin’s served the brandy slowly like I asked.” She could only hope that no one would have gotten too merry to travel home, most of their rooms were spoken for. She had no desire to be hosting a drunkard expat all night long, everyone in the house, above stairs and down, deserved a rest after the trials and preparations of the past few weeks.

“A fine idea, Mrs. K.” Ophelia crooned.” Charlbury was three sheets to the wind when I passed him last.” She ‘tsk-ed’

Elizabeth made a face, and Ophelia noticed.

“Whatevers the matter with you, _gel?”_ She asked.

“Still reeling from the fact you just paid me a compliment in such _plain_ semantics, is all…” Elizabeth grinned.

Ophelia ‘ _hmmphed_ ’ one of the more succinct of her favourite phrases. And there also came a small thump from her cane.

“Go on, be off with you. For that’ll be the only kind word you shall hear from me _all year_ , until you earn the privilege of another…” She warned.

Elizabeth smiled at the woman. _That was much more the ticket._

She turned and picked up her pace, smiling as she weaved through the heaving, swirling crowds of the orangery, passing through the less busy hall, though still thronging with servants, guests and footmen laden with trays of drink. She recieves many compliments about the ball, the splendour of the house, and a few kind matrons are kind enough to remark on her radiant ‘glow’. Elizabeth was going to mention how her ‘radiance’ should be more attributed to the fact she had been running around all night seeing that everything was alright. Her blood pressure spiked as she skirted past Caroline and her gang of similarly nasty tempered harpy’s and heard her Mother-in-law exclaim to one of her cronies

“Yes, it was _no trouble_. It was _easy_ really, setting everything up. I was solely responsible for the running of things, you know, no one else in the house could be trusted to do it. I congratulate myself that it was my sensational sense of planning, you know, that saved this ball from becoming a such a sad, sorry affair. I decided the house needed a party again, trust not throwing one for sixteen years just because of a death, it's not _right._ ” She cooed to her friends.

Elizabeth continued walking on as if she hadn’t heard a thing, presumably, they hadn’t spotted her. _Amazingly_ , Elizabeth thought. She fancied Caroline could tell when she drew close, so as to make sure she used some of the finer formed of her more hurtful comments about the Duchess. She continued to walk on, that was, until she heard one of them leer towards the Dowager with a question that made her ears prick up. Though she didn’t want to stop, her feet _made_ her.

“ _Oh, do_ tell us more about the _undesirable,_ Caroline…” The voice screeched excitedly. Loud enough to be overheard.

“Her father is a _professor_ , of mathematics. They have a house in, _Camden._ ”

There broke out afterwards, a cackling ripple of squawking laughter that didn’t desist. It made her stomach churn with sorrow, and her throat choke with that odd, cold and heavy feeling that you get when trying to hold tears at bay.

“Perhaps you’ll _visit_ when you're next in London?” One voice mocked, hooting with laughter thereafter. 

“That’s not even the _best_ of it…” Caroline promised. “The father, _is remarried_ , to a woman who would make Mrs Bennett look like a Saint. The younger sister hasn’t got two braincells to tie together, and is severely _under-accomplished_. And the best friend, _pray_ _attend this_ , is the daughter of a _bank manager_ …” She squealed with delight.

“Well, with _such a lowly bride_ , what can Thomas expect from the _second-rate simpleton?”_ Someone chimed in.

“Red hair, too, apparantly. How perfectly _vile…_ ” One of them added. It was apparantly Caroline’s turn to then speak up and add more insult to injury.

“Her fathers estate is worth less than £3,000 pounds, you know. And they haven’t _any_ connections that are worth a mention..” She scoffed.

More laughter, more mocking, _more pain._

“I wonder if Thomas is _regretting_ his choice of bride?” One of them wondered aloud.

“Well, if he _isn’t now_ , he certainly shall be _soon,_ I’ve no doubt about it…” One of them pitched in again.

It was then, the people who had provided Elizabeth such ample cover, happened to slide away, and Caroline, and the numerous, bone picking, society _vultures_ that were huddled around her, caught a glimpse of Elizabeth, plain as day, stood within earshot of them all. All merrily holiding brandy glasses, obviously the catalyst that had fueled them to be quite so lucid and loud with their speech

Caroline met Elizabeth eyes, but it was one of her friends who stepped forwards, and spoke.

“ _Oh_ , I haven’t laid eyes on you yet. I don’t recognise you dear, I don’t believe we’ve met…”

The woman cooed with a smile that was much prettier than her snake like manner, Elizabeth noticed that she had gone overboard in every sense in her dress and appearance. Her gown could have groaned with the amount of flambouyant décor sewn onto it. The same went for the thick lashings and layers of overdone makeup that sat on her ugly face. Elizabeth had seen pantomine dames manage to look more feminine than this stranger.

Elizabeth plastered a fake look of civility onto her features, her rosebud lips pulled into a demure smile, that could have fooled anyone.

 _“Oh_ , have _we not?”_ She asked sweetly. “I suppose I should introduce myself under a name you’d be familiar with, _now_ _hmmm,_ let me think…” She stammered for a second. Before holding out her hand.

“The second rate, _undesirable,_ Elizabeth Kenworthy. Duchess of Chatsworth. _So pleased_ to meet you..”

She snarled. And the smile went from her face, her warm blue eyes hardened to frost and the dame leered back looking like she had just been struck. Before any of them tried to stutter a pathetic excuse to try and conceal their true opinions. Elizabeth turned on her heels and let them have her rudeness.

“Ooops.” One of them mocked, guffawing with laughter behind her back. 

“You didn’t say she was so _ill tempered?_ How wretched. Poor Thomas, can you imagine having _such a wife as that?_ Poor, _poor, boy…”_ They clucked.

“And, here, we all thought he’d marry, _so well.”_

She heard one of them exclaim before she strode out of sight of them. The last thing she heard, was Caroline goading them that it was of no consequence. Fueled by anger, she found herself very quickly making good way toward the kitchens. Making sure everything else was having a better evening at this ball than she was. She catches Mrs. Robson talking in a hushed, worried manner to a couple of the housemaids, Joan and Evie, in a quiet corner of the foyer where no one but the staff were milling about.

“Mrs. Robson…” Elizabeth called. The woman looked ashen.

She watched the Housekeeper turn to face her, attempting to mask over the concern on her face.

“Madam..” She greets nervously, wringing her hands.

“Whatevers the matter?” Elizabeth enquires.

Clearly, this evening wasn’t running _so smoothly_ after all. Which is just about the last thing she needs right now. But, she was head of this house. She would see it through any problems, as any decent Duchess would do.

“It’s Suzetté, Ma’am.” One of the housemaids spoke up, looking as worried as Mrs. R did.

“What about her?” Elizabeth asked, searching across all three of their faces, trying to read the moment, and assess the damange.

“She’s gone _missin’_ Madam. We can’t _find her_ anywhere…” Mrs. Robson explained.

“When and where was she last seen?” Elizabeth asks with confusion.

“Handing out refreshments in the card room, so far as we know, that was the last instruction given to her…” Mrs. Robson told.

Elizabeth didn’t like the distinctly horrible feeling that was bothering her, down low in her gut. Her sixth sense telling her that housemaids didn’t just _dissapear_ for no earthly reason. She swallowed down any bitter niggling concerns that were rolling about in her brain.

“I’ll go and check ground floor salons and parlours. Mrs Robson why don’t you and Joan check the Ballroom? and Evie, go and find Agnes or Elsie and check the upstairs rooms and the servant’s quarters, okay? Perhaps worst came to worst, she suddenly took ill and snuck back there so as not to be noticed…”

Elizabeth commanded. Her tone clear, and her voice strong. Inspiring confidence in her staff, as she had become so used to doing in her brief time here.

She nodded at all of them, before she took a candle holder from off the nearest table, and lit it. he part of the house she was venturing into would be dark, no fires would be stoked. All the staff’s energy had gone to the half of the house that housed the ball, not the salons. She heard them scatter to follow her instructions in her wake as she headed off alone into the night.

As she walked along, and turned the corner at Thomas’s study, she took a second to note how different the house looked, awash silver and blue in the hue of moonlight and darkness. It almost made the place look bigger and more unfamiliar. She’s not sure quite how, but that’s how she would describe it, personally. _It was probably a good thing she wasn’t a writer,_ she thought idly. _She’d trip over her own words more often than made sense._

She checked a couple of the salons in the north wing, which in turn were all empty. All sat silent, still and dark compared to the abundance of life and light that sparkled and overflowed in the other part of the house.

She opened the green salon door, peering inside. This was the one Caroline used in which to write her various letters. Her curiosity stoked, she left the door ajar and strode in, placing her candelabra down on the desk, her eyes taking a second to sweep over her correspondance. Not finding anything of particular interest. Feeling a little annoyed, and having her pride so thoroughly pricked by the nasty woman, Elizabeth ‘accidentally’ left the bottle of ink overturned on her papers, so a pool of black ink soaked into the thick wodge of linen like parchment. The bottle wasn’t very full, so bled out quite quickly. And with each drop of ink, she felt a little petty, but a little more cured of her anger. Plus, a tiny mix of gaiety was mingled into the moment. She decided to leave before she caused any more such mischief in spite to her horrific mother-in-law.

That’s when she heard _it._

_It, being one of the most terrible things she’d ever heard in her life._

It sliced through the air and reached her ears. Like the way a sharks fin carved through water. It had come from the next room.

It was the choked sound of a _sob._

Elizabeth grabbed the candlelabra, bolted for the door and slipped out. She paced along until she got to the Rose parlour, and violently grabbed for the doorhandle, and wrenched the door to slam open, and hit against the chest of drawers behind the door, stopping to it’s final resting place with a resounding _‘thunk’_ Her hand clasped over her mouth, and she shrunk back with tears in her eyes and with a gasp letting the occupants of the room privy to the fact she was there.

The sight that met her eyes in that room, would never leave them.

Braced against the far wall, lit only one lone candle on the far side of the room, was the huge, towering frame of a dark haired man. His arms braced wide, making a low grunting noise as he stilled, palms pressed flat to the wall, pinning someone below him. And the small frame under his, was making soft, choking sounds. Sounds of _weeping._

There was no evidence rightaway that they were up to anything abnormal, they seemed to be fully clothed, and merely standing chest to chest, pressed against one another. But then the figure beneath the one with his back to her, moved their head, and Elizabeth saw a tear stained, babyish face, cheeks still plump from youth, with a pair of big brown eyes wet with glimmering tears, and the cap on her hair had several long, bark coloured coils coming out of it. Spilling down to her bared shoulders. Letting the Duchess know they were _intimately entangled_. 

The lithe figure jerked to the side, and the bigger man in front of her, let her go. She jerked away, sprinting across the room, running in pure fear. Clutching her torn blue dress to cover the remains of her dignity Hugging her arms about her chest, she ran sobbing, past Elizabeth with a whispered sob of an apology, and raced away, off into the night down the dark corridor.

Elizabeth, it seems, had found Suzetté.

She had found her being indecently assualted in the most, _abhorrent_ , of ways. And by the Earl of Audley, no less.

Elizabeth didn’t know what to do, she watched the man drunkenly fumble with righting his clothes, with his back to her, before he turned and leered at the Duchess. Those green eyes, the colour of pine, lighting up like emeralds in the moonlight. He walked closer, his gait made a little uneven by drink.

She wanted to leave, to scream, to run and attack him with her bare hands. Strangle him, kick him, throw things and shout her lungs out. But she _just stood_ , completely paralysed by fear, and an odd mix of bone deep rage and shock.

“A terribly obliging girl, that...”

He leered evilly at her. Not looking even the slightest bit sorry, nor recognising what he had done as shameful.

Elizabeth really thought she might be sick, right then and there, _right_ at his feet.

He came to stand close to her. So close she could smell the heavy fumes of drink on his breath, she could see the flush of exertion on his cheeks and smell the musk of his sweat stick his shaggy hair to his brow. There was still a glazed, _lusting_ , look to his eyes, as if he were still comitting the act. Her chest was heaving, and his eyes hungrily watched her. Her pretty mouth gaping.

Elizabeth shook her head. She then found her courage.

“You’re a …… _monster_ …”

She spat out, before she turned on her heel, shrinking back to turn her back on him and march away. She had to go and find Thomas and tell him about this travesty. Throw the lout in prison to rot, for all she cared.

She felt his iron grip tug on her arm. Halting her where she stood. Pinching her skin as he snarled at her. She dropped the candle holder and it went out as it clattered to the floor below. 

“And you, won’t so much as even _think_ of running off to tell your _daft husband_  nor his plain  _widowed sister, a_ bout this…” He informed her. "I _still intend_ to make her _my_ bride before the season is _out."_ He rasps. 

She snarled at him. Viciously jerking her arm, trying to loosen his grip, that only tightened

"Iris will  _never_ have you." She steeled. 

" _Oh. She will_." He smirks. "She'll have _no choice_ in it. And not even a red headed, _bitch_ , will stop our _blessed_ union. 

“Get off me, _you reptile.”_

She hisses lowly at him. Her rage seconds away from becoming violent. Her fist clenching so hard as she tugged on her arm, that her arm _shook_. He tugged harder, dwarfing her strength, pulling her closer to him, making her sure his fingers would brand a painful mark, a reminder, onto her wrist.

“Keep silent as the grave about this, you conniving _little snitch_ , or else I’ll make you wish you never laid eyes on me.”

“Believe me. I’m _already_ desiring that.” She assures him.

“You’ve got a lot more to lose than I have.” He swares. Sneering. Looking at her swollen stomach.

“And you, Audley, had better pray your precious Dowager friend doesn’t find out about this. Maids gossip. Even _you_ know _that._.” She growls.

“You can’t threaten me, darling. I’m _untouchable.”_ He promises.

“Unhand me, _now_ , you _bloody bastard_!” She spits out. Seething.

“Pretty mouth. Fine figure. Words and manners of a _whore._ Why, Lady Elizabeth, your husband wouldn’t like to hear that kind of talk? _Or would he?_ Does he like it when you act like the dirty little _harlot_ you are in bed? It's of little matter either way. That Hastings chit will soon deprive you of his favour, and his _bedchamber..."_ He snarls. 

She tried to slap him, after he let her go, and he tried his hardest to return the favour.

But a manly hand hooking to his bicep, and wrenching him off his very – drunken – feet. Audley was strong, there was no denying, and quite tall, but not _quite_ and tall, and not as strapping, as Sir Benedict Carlton.

“Raise your arm to the lady again, Sir, and I will _break it off_.”

He assured with a haughty tone of assurance that left Elizabeth satsisfied he could manage it with one flick of his wrist. He looked dangerous. And Elizabeth knew Carlton had risen to the rank of an officer in the army in the Crimea. He had seen battle, killed men, whereas Audley, _evidently_ , had not.

This was evident in the way that Benedict spoke in an unusually calm, even voice, but there were storms in his eye sockets and revulsion in his expression. Something about his rage also made his stance look taller, and more powerful. He reminded Elizabeth of a big cat she had once seen at the zoo. The way he moved, wasn’t lumbering and ungainly. It was sleek, and full of harmful intent. He moved with feline grace, like a lion. With sleek power underlining his every stride. Almost like the attack was orchestrated.

Audley snarled, and yanked himself away, gathering himself, he steadied his back against the wall and sneered at the man. His eyes turning to poison as he looked at Elizabeth’s savior.

“You’re _no better_.”

Audley spat. Literally spat. A gobbett of spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. The drink making him lucid and slobbenly.

“Look who comes to defend the low classed  _whore_. The older brother of a _queer.”_ He grins.

This time, Benedict actually did hit him. He moved so quick, Elizabeth wasn’t able to comprehend how he did it. But, all she knew, was that they were apart, and then, they weren’t. Benedict was at the man’s throat, after having delivered a punch, directed harshly upwards into his ribs. Winding the man, and she was damn sure such force could break a rib.

“ _Leave,_ Audley. Before I tear your head from your shoulders.”

Benedict susurrates in a lethal growl into the Earl’s ear, as his arm wrapped around his middle, clutching at his torso, he turned his head and spat on the floor, before he stormed past, and slunk away in disgrace.

They watched him go and neither of them spoke until it was silent again.

“Would you like some ice for your hand?” She asked him in a voice that sounded impossibly tiny.

He looked at her and smiled mildly. Shaking his head for no, she watched him wipe away a bitter tear of rage that had gathered in the corner of his feline shaped eyes.

They were both dancing around the awful tension that made the both of them not know, quite, what to say to one another.

“Christopher would have hated me hurting the man.” He finally spoke. “Even if in his defence.”

It wasn’t common knowledge of Benedict Carlton’s younger brothers _taste_. Somehow, the news didn’t surprise Elizabeth. Christopher was every bit as fair, and as handsome as his brother. He had golden coils and locks of hair, the colour of honey, and big blue eyes that he had yet to grow into. His smile was as sweet as his manner, and he found pleasure in everyone, and everywhere he went. He was perhaps a head or two shorter than his towering elder brother, but there was no mistaking the slanted, feline eyes and the straight, handsome lips that linked them as Carlton men by blood. Christopher was lucky to have parents, and three brother’s and one sister, who loved him exactly as he was. They didn’t treat him as the family’s disdainful secret to be horrified and embarassed over. The Carlton family held their chin high in defense of their son.

Truth was, if anyone ever voiced or spoke a word of hatred towards the younger Carlton about his _alternative_ desires. They were shunned from all decent lists of society. Because The Earl of Herefordshire, Sir Albert Frederick Carlton, was a powerful man if ever there was one to walk the earth, and no one _would dare_ tread on his toes when it came to one of his beloved sons. Of which he _had four_. Benedict the eldest, then there was Gideon, and then his poor sister, Constance, wedged inamongst four rowdy boys, there then came Christopher, and last but not least, Oscar, who, barely brushing a day over thirteen, and also whom barely reached the bottom of Benedict’s ribs. They were a rowdy lot. But a bunch who always looked after, and loved one another. – no matter the cost. Even if that cost were a set of purple knuckles every once in while.

But knowing Gid, Connie and even Oscar, they too, would all risk breaking the bones in their hands upon a strangers face who had the nerve to speak in offensive maltreatment of a _most beloved_ brother.

“I think he _deserved_ it.” Elizabeth warranted.

“Of course he did, the man’s an _ass.”_ Benedict said with loathing. But with every solid intention of letting her know he _truly_ meant it.

She was still shocked, hurting and reeling. But she did manage a small laugh at his blunt words.

“I should really be going to find Thomas…” Elizabeth then fretted aloud.

“I’ll accompany you.” Benedict insisted with a nod. Looking ready to prowl beside her, more than prepared to plant his fist in more men’s ribs – if necessary.

Elizabeth must have given him the cut direct of one of her looks, because this induced Benedict to say;

“Drink can taint even the most saintlike of men into louts not fit to be seen, Mrs Kenworthy. I should not like to see you meet any more of them in a dark corridor _without aid.”_ He explains to her.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think theres anyone quite _so tainted_ as the Earl of Audley.”

“…Even _without_ the drink.” He adds.

They were striding powerfully through the halls now, heading back to the lively areas of the house. Happy to be back amongst noise and light, and company of music and merriment once more. Elizabeth strained on tiptoes to try and catch the back of a dark obsidian head, and her husbands distinctive tapered pale neck amongst the crowds. Or even the wide slope of his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing anything distinctive either. A dark formal suit that looked alike every other one she could see of the hundreds in the room before her. She found no sign of him, and nor could Sir Carlton, who had a good few feet in advance in height on her above the bulk of the crowds. He scattered away to check the refreshment room, and the gambling room for her, but an extensive search proved those to be empty of her Duke also.

“Where are you?”

Elizabeth murmers to herself. Not knowing what to expect, that some sixth sense would lead her to her husband. She stood tall once more, craning her neck, stood on tiptoes.

“The terrace?” Benedict asks.

Elizabeth nods, and they skirt around the dancers, weaving through the fringes of the ballroom, dipping to and fro, slowly but surely making their way towards where a couple of the orangery doors were pulled wide open, allowing the candlelight to spill out and dissolve into the lush night air beyond, Elizabeth scurried ahead of Benedict, who became trapped by some Lord recognising the signiture Carlton lips, the straight nose and the slanted eyes, and accosts him with a hearty bidding. As it was, Elizabeth is the one who reaches the terrace first. She finds is mostly empty, save for a couple of figures strolling far away in the torch lit gardens, but her attention was turned to the tall towering man, and the dark haired girl not a metre away from him. stood seperately – but not for long.

She thought she’d had enough of seeing shocking sights this evening, but apparantly, no, this was _just one more_ she had to witness.

She could do nothing but watch as Anabelle Hastings leaned up, threw her arms around Thomas’s neck, leaned her body up to press lengthways into his, and _kissed_ him squarely on the lips.

Time seemed to stop. She didn’t hear the music behind her, nor the buzz of chatter, or the sound of the dancers as they waltzed. She thinks she stood there for a decade seeing this sickening sight.

Elizabeth doesn’t know how to react. _How could she?_ How did she know to act towards something like this? The love of her life, the man who made her _very soul, her every cell a_ nd her _bones ache_ , she loved him so much, prostrate in the arms of another woman. Embracing her. She was certain she made _a noise_. She was not even sure if it was Thomas’s name, or just a choking sigh, ripped away into the night's breeze

She felt Benedict stop very abrubtly behind her. His mouth gaping at the sight of his loyal friend kissing another woman, whilst his _wife_ stood not a foot away. The wife who’d just been accosted by a foul drunkard. And now had to come out here, after the shock she suffered, and find she was being cuckolded.

His fist _itched_ to punch someone once more. And his brain wanted _to let it._

Thomas then seemed to come to life. He tore his face away, with revulsion at her attentions, and his arms pushed her off him with as much force as he deemed necessary, he put a great distance between them, looking confused and repulsed. And then he turned and saw Elizabeth.

Stood as still as a statue, and paler than one too, like marble, stood reeling in the moonlight. He opened his mouth to defend the sordid embrace. Seeing that her eyes switched between him, and Anabelle and then back again. Her eyes were ready to shed tears, and that hurt his _very heart_.

But she looked so extraordinarily _still._ Matter of fact, the only thing about her that moved was the wind that swayed coils of hair in front of her hurting, expressionless eyes.

“You have five seconds to explain yourself lest I break every bone in _your face_ for your wife's honour, Kenworthy.”

Benedict seethed, snarling. He could expect such behavior from rakes, from selfish bachelors who were promised to no one, and even from men so gone on drink they could barely stand. But what he _didn’t_ expect, was to see his gallant, decent friend, who was so in love with his wife, it was remarked to be _nauseating. He couldn't_ _stand to see that he had sunk so low as this._

The man he thought he knew, who’d put his own life on the line for others, the man he trusted to always be the better of the two of them. To be kind, reasonable and _so very_ amiable. It was like finding out your hero, your idle, the one person you respect more than words, was a cad and a liar. The man he had once thought the world of as his best friend. The man who he would hurt if he didn’t explain himself soonish. Because he hadn’t only upset, and made his wife heartbroken. He had dissapointed the one man who thought him a _god_ among men in his friendship circle of fickle idiots. The one person he thought was better and more pure hearted than he was.

And it turns out, _he wasn't_. 

The friend he knew would never have kissed a stupid airhead, whilst his _wife and child_ stood idly by.

Thomas took his friends warning, he just wanted his wife to _look_ at him.

_Please, darling, please. I know I don’t deserve it, but please just look at me?! Please.._

Elizabeth still said nothing. She looked now at Anabelle. Though Thomas was stepping towards her, praying she met his eyes. Just so he could explain himself… How she had thrown herself at him and he was shocked, and saddened.

Elizabeth looked long and hard at Miss Hastings, wishing she could possess the bravery to say something. _But what?_ That innocent uncaring face just looked back at her with bruised lips and a look of smug satisfaction on her face.

_Stay away from my Husband? Get out of my house? Don’t ever set foot on Chatsworth land again, or I will scratch your stupid, interfering eyes out? She didn’t know what to say..._

Thomas choking her name, and reaching out towards her recaptures her attention.

She blinked. _Nothing._  

She couldn’t say anything. Not a _single, damn_ , thing. Her brain was a throbbing sponge in her head and nothing more. Replaying the sight of them kissing over and over… How could she let him know he had just crushed her heart in the palm of his hand into a thousand daggering pieces that hurt like shrapnel in her chest. He had just done the one thing in this world that could ever, _truly_ , hurt her.

She shook her head, unable to look at the handsome face she had once been obsessed with seeing smile and laugh as he spoke to her.

She turned around and walked back inside. Not brave enough to say anything else. The wallflower she had once been had overtaken her once again.

She heard him run after her, and touch her arm, she flinched out of it, turned, and looked him right in the eyes.

“ _Don’t._ ”

She swallowed, her voice breaking. Silence, coming from the woman whom he knew, always had something to say, was perhaps the _most horrific_ thing of all.

“Tomorrow. Tell me tomorrow. Tonight, I don’t want to hear it.” She speaks sharply, watching his face fall.

She walked off.

Because if she paid it full attention now, she’d crumple to the floor sobbing, and she’d never get up again.

She walked away, and he lets her.

She pushed through crowds, all the while, staring at her feet. And because she was in company of many hundreds of people, she would not let herself cry. And then she remembered, there was something far more horrific in this house than deceit and heartbreak. Or maybe she just didn’t want to think about him, and her anymore.

She made her way to the kitchens, stepping carefully down the steps. The only light came from glowing candle's on the long rectangular table, and the copper hue from well stoked fire in the hearth. A small cluster of silhouettes were gathered around the huge, roaring fireplace, and all present, she could see, were gaggled around a particular wooden chair, paying the person within especially close attention. The seat was pulled close to the hearth. Those figures served to be Mrs. Robson, Agnes, Elsie, and the smaller than humanly possible, petite form of Suzetté, whose was presently accepting a hot drink being pressed into her shaking hands from the Housekeeper, as Elsie crouched beside her on the arm of the chair, and rubbed her back. Agnes sat opposite, rubbing her knee soothingly.

The fire lit up, like a beacon, the path of the fresh amber tears that were dribbling down her cheeks.

The women turned at hearing heels clack their way across the kitchen floors, across to them all. Mrs. Robson gave Elizabeth a look of pity and private understanding.

 _“Was she?”_ Elizabeth asked with a look. Because, she was still clinging onto a shred of hope that there was some humanity left to this world. Enough to hope. 

Mrs. Robson swallowed, and responded with a bitter look, and a mere nod;

_“She was.”_

Elizabeth nodded glumly. Agnes, on seeing the Duchess, shot out of her seat and offered it to the woman. Elizabeth smiled, accepting it, settling her skirts and her body into the warm wooden cradle. Seeing that Suzetté’s warm eyes looked ready to melt away with all the force of her tears.

 _Nineteen_. She thought. _Nineteen years old, and she had to endure the worst crime of all, right under her nose, in her home._

“I’m. _So sorry_ , Madamé. _Tres desole_.” She sobs, with great, fat tears rippling down her face.

Elizabeth clasps her hand, which was like ice, much like her own. All the shock she’s endured tonight, she supposes.

She very firmly shakes her head.

“No.” She replies. Her voice wobbling. 

" _Non, Suzetté,”_ She pressed firmly.

 _“I’m_ the one who should be sorry.” She cried. "I should be on my knees and begging your forgiveness for the fact that it was my doing, that that wicked man was in our home." She explained.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness. Suzettè. But I shall ask for it all the same. I am sorry. More than you can ever know. " Elizabeth whispers. 

Suzettè looked at Elizabeth for a long second. Tears still drifting down her cheeks. 

"Non. Mi'Lady. C'est... S'il vous plait. It t'was not your fault." The maid broke at the end of her sentence, reliving the pain of the dreadful encounter, her tone collapsed into a sob. She ducked forwards. Mrs. Robson artfully darted forwards and manoeuvred the drink out of her slackening hands. As she rocked forwards onto her knees, letting grief and hysteria come forth. 

The Duchess moved forwards and took the girl into her arms then and Suzetté let the banks truly burst as she collapsed into Elizabeth’s loving hold, and cried on her shoulder, meekly wrapping her arms around her Mistress. Heaving big gulps of air into her lungs as she did. With Agnes rubbing her friends back all the while. Soothing her. Elizabeth cradled the back of her head, stroking her hair, ushering soft endearments in french into the maids ears.

No one, from that day on, would ever dare say that The Duchess of Chatsworth didn’t love and respect her staff.

The kitchen door slammed shut, and footsteps barrelled across the floor, and an overexcited housemaid rushed into the room, not knowing the horrors that were currently gripping it. She didn’t see Elizabeth slumped onto the dirty, ash ridden floor, in her expensive ivory gown, hugging the sobbing kitchenmaid.

“Thomas Kenworthy kissed Anabelle Hastings!” She rambled. “It’s all over the ballroom! _Everyone’s talkin’_ about it.” She gabbled.

Mrs. Robson shut her up with a brusque, cross, order, stepping aside, and allowing the girl to see the Duchess, huddled onto the dirty, ashy, cold and stained stone floor, hugging the girl who’d life had just been ruined indeterminably. Everyone watched Elizabeth, fearful of her reaction. But she would give them _none._ Just as she told Thomas.  _Not tonight_.

She turned her head towards the direction of the fire, so that atleast no one would see her tears.

 

~

 

 

 


	90. Row's, Final Stipulation's, and Seperate Room's...

 

 

 

It follow’s naturally that she got not _a wink_ of sleep that night.

She lay there, in bed, under the thick red quilts, simply lying on her back, and staring at the canopy of the bed. It felt cold and empty, and despairingly big with only her to fill it.

It also follows, _unsurprisingly,_ that Thomas was giving her her distance this evening. This would be the first time, as husband and wife, that they had admired separate bedchambers.

And what’s worse, was that she could hear him moving about in the next room. Joined to hers by a connecting door. The floorboards in the adjoining bedroom, just inside the door, were loose, and they creaked and chafed together whenever anyones weight pressed onto them. Her breath skipped when she heard the tell-tale moan of the wood as someone’s foot pressed down onto it. _Thomas’s foot._ Her stomach tightened, tensing with the tension and fear that he might open the door and intrude to talk to her. and that terrified her. because for the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say if she did have to face him. She lay there, ears pricked, listening out for more sounds. So far, she calculated, he had come close to the door, _six time_ s. But not opened it.

 _Six times_ he had moved to the door, hesitated behind the frame, and gone away. And then she’d hear the whine again and know that he had attempted it once more. She was willing him to stay that side of the door. _So she didn’t have to face him_.

Every time she shut her eyes, _all_ she could see was Anabelle Hastings embracing her lips to Thomas’s, out on the dark terrace, the both of them glimmering in amber torchlight. Her hands wrapped around his neck. Their bodies pressed lengthways in one another during the sordid kiss.

She felt sick whenever the sight and thought shuddered through her body. Her heart trembled with pain when she thought about it. And she would involuntarily reach down and stroke over the baby bump. She’d never felt ashamed she was carrying her husband’s child before, but now, she felt jolted out of every right feeling she had previously known. Doubt and anxiety crept in the longer she thought over the incident.

_Was she a bad wife? Was she not serving nor filling her duties as one adequately enough? Had she, in her short tempers that afternoon, driven him into the arms of another woman?_

She knew Anabelle Hastings held no kind regard towards her. That much the girl had made obvious from her first encounter. But did she have it in her to be so consumed by the sensation, to interfere in a marriage? To try and ruin Thomas and Elizabeth’s deep connections and their love for one another. And then think she could steal him away thereafter, and have him all to herself? _Did she think that would possibly work?_

She knew Anabelle’s rapport for Thomas was born out of a childish connection, which only made her hatred of the Duchess all the more potent. And, being no more than a girl of an immature nature, naturally, her inclinations towards seperating a man and wife, were callous and uncaring to the sensitivity of the people who had made vows to one another, for life, and all of eternity in front of god and their family. How could the schemes of a jealous, cruel, and hurt little girl understand what it was to have a marriage?

_Anabelle was thinking only of herself, and her attraction to him. She hadn’t given a seconds consideration to what she was meddling in._

They were going to have a _child_ together. They were soul mates. Their love was so deep a connection that it _hurt_. Their love for one another was a pyhsical ache that _never_ went away. An ache that was there day and night. It was _unfathomable_ that they could ever be apart from one another. They, in their own ways, had saved each other body and soul. She, had saved him from despair of a bachelors life, and he, had rescued her from foul men, bullets, and becoming a spinster not worth a mention.

She thought, that as partners, they shared every intimacy. Every thought and each feeling.

 _'But clearly not everything.'_ her brain points out.

Hot tears squeezed out of her eyes. Dropping over her cheeks, and dripping to the cushion below. Sinking into the lace pillow behind her head. She sniffed, the back of her hand brushing away the spearing, heated tears. A shallow, and sobbing breath rattled up out of her ribcage, bursting painfully through her torso.

 _How could she begin to make her way through this one?_ She thinks.

She heard the sound again. Indicating he was close to the door once more, standing the other side of it. Her breath caught in her throat, and she huddled into herself, curling into a little ball, turning away onto her side, facing the opposite wall of the dark bedroom.

Because this time, he did attempt the door. And he possessed the courage to open it, and was now looking through at hearing the soft sniffle that had come from the bed.

_It appears Mr. Kenworthy didn’t know what to say either..._

He wanted to make her understand that he’d never so much as _looked_ at another woman in lust or fancy since he met her. And he had not become accustomed to doing so even before his marriage to her either. He wanted _to grab her_ , and shake her by the shoulders _, snarl_ and _shout_ and inform her that this was _not_ his fault. He did never in a million years want to kiss another girl. He had known Anabelle once, when he was a boy, that was true, and that connection had _ended_ there too. But, he didn’t give _two figs_ about the interfering, thoughtless girl now. He wanted to march over to that bed and show Elizabeth, with his body, and his words, how she was the _only woman_ he wanted, _and ever would want_ , in his life. That’s why he married her. _He loved her._   _Unequivocally_. He was mad about her, he loved her so madly it was beyond _any powerful_ thing he had ever known. He had once practiced pragmatism, and sense, and the amount he loved her made him doubt his mind was – in fact – a reasonable thing after all.

Each day, he woke up, astounded to find that he appeared to love her more than he had the day before, and the day before, and the day before that. And he didn’t even think that _possible._

 _Please, dear god,_ He begged, and Thomas never was one for begging, nor was he sure he even believed in god, _Please, what do I say to her? how can I make her understand? I don’t want this…_ He cried internally to himself.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Came a soft little voice from the bed.

He stepped slowly into the room, right into a shaft of moonlight from the window opposite their bed. She didn’t turn to face him, even as she spoke to him. She lay, facing from him. Her coiled red hair thrown In disarray over the pillow, he could see the curve of her spine spike through the back of her thin nightgown, which, being slightly too big, slid a little way off her right shoulder that was closest to him.

“Not a wink.” He informs sullenly.

“I’ve never been _more tired…”_ Elizabeth told, her voice breaking, wobbling, as she nearly broke. “I can’t even close my eyes…”

Thomas stood, and listened.

“Then, can I fetch you somethi-“ He began.

She couldn’t hold the tears back this time. The banks burst, and she began to sob.. He could see her body heave and wrack with each gasp.

“I’ll tell you why I can’t close my eyes Thomas. It’s because every time I do, all I see is Anabelle pressing her lips onto yours, and I,…and, _it_ really, _really_ , hurts…” She cried.

He swallowed, his eyes pricking with wetness at seeing her grief.

“I didn’t _want_ to kiss her, Elizabeth. I didn’t even want to be _near her.”_ He defended.

“But _you did, and you were.”_ She pointed out.

“I was looking for _you._ ” He pointed out.

“…And you didn’t find _me_ in her mouth? How shocking…” She bristled.

Thomas moved closer, his temper darting briefly into anger. As he strode quickly across the room.

“I went out into that terrace, _alone._ Elizabeth.” He growled.

“She _found me,_ she _approached me._ She cornered me on that terrace and started rambling on about our childhood, and then, the next thing I knew her arms were on my neck, and she _threw herself_ on me…” He explained.

“I was in shock that she’d do such a thing…” He adds.

Elizabeth didn’t speak.

“What do you expect me to say?”

She asked after a minute or two of silence. The wind rattled the window, and the elm tree near the bedroom window shuddered because of it.

“Well… Can you atleast _forgive me?”_ He asked.

She let out a ragged breath.

“ _I don’t know..”_ She hushed.

Those, those right there were the words that came close enough to _breaking his heart._

He swallowed, taking a short, sharp breath.

“Will you _ever_ , forgive me? Or am I to live in _torture_ until you’ve elected to make up your mind?” He asks sternly.

“You think I’m not going to _live_ in torture?” She asks rhetorically.

“My husband is rumoured to kiss a debutante at one of the busiest social events in Chatsworth's history, and I’m now forever known as a _cuckolded_ wife. While you take your comforts in a younger, more willing _body.”_ She gasps with heat in her voice.

“ _Oh,_ Is that a _fact, now?”_ He snarls.

“No. But with the busiest mouths being present at that ball, Thomas, you can be _damn sure_ by tomorrow it _will be.”_ She informed him.

“Yes, well, I feel so _terribly sorry_ for you. Poor Elizabeth, being considered a cuckold. Meanwhile my reputation could be in tatters and you _don’t seem to give a damn_ about it…” He shouts, bracing both his hands on the mattress now, closer to her as he barked out his words.

“ _How dare you_.” She bites back, spinning about and sitting up in the bed, her blue eyes wet with tears and rage.

“You think I don’t _give a damn?_ How do you think this feel’s Thomas? Because a man has the complete freedom to take as many women as he wants, and _damn_ the consequences. He is just considered an unsafe rake. But, _women_ ….” She laughs bitterly.

“Women are much more _easily_ tarnished by crimes of passion Thomas.” She cried. “You remain a man about town, a sophisticate Duke, with a mistress tucked away safely. Very fashionable. Whereas I am forever pegged as the, cold, frigid spinster woman who couldn’t _satisfy_ or keep her husband.” She yells.

“I never in a million years thought we’d have a loveless marriage, or any relationship of that kind. Or was it just that you had your _heir sired_. And that was all you needed? Just fancied a little something _on the side?”_ She asks blithely.

“I’ve no _bloody intention_ of taking a mistress, and how very dare you insinuate otherwise.” He snaps. “Believe it or not, I’m actually in love with _you.”_

“Tonight. Thomas. It doesn’t _fee_ l like it…” She growls back.

He stares at her for a long second. His face was anger, disbelief and pain rolled into one. Tears were still fresh in his eyes. His jaw crunched together and that infamous vein in his neck _, strained._

“ _No._ It doesn’t, _does it?”_ He answers with hatred.

She looks at him stonily.

“Do you _want_ a mistress?” She finds herself asking.

“How can you even _ask_ me that?” He fights back.

“I want to know if it will be in a position to happen _again._ ” She demands. “Then I’ll be sure to give you and your ladies a wide _berth._ ”

Thomas’s jaw clenched even more, if that were possible. He slowly shook his head.

“ _Who are you?_ _Where’s_ the woman I married? Where did _my_ Elizabeth go? Because I’m afraid I don’t recognise her in the shrewish female stood before me.” He tells with poison in his tone.

 _“Good._ Because I’m seeing _no speck_ of _my husband_ the man I married before _me, either_..” She snarls. “ _My Thomas_ Kenworthy would never dream of embracing conniving debutantes on dark terraces as their wife looks on..”

“Then maybe for the time being, we should admire _separate_ rooms.” He finishes.

She swallows, trying desperately not to cry. Clamping her teeth shut.

“ _Fine_ by me…” She rumbles lowly.

“Do let me know if you have a change of heart. And decide to accept my honest truths of the event.” He adds in a bark.

She says nothing to that.

“ _And here,_ I thought you’d _saved_ me from being oppressed into a loveless marriage..” She spoke softly after he turned his back to leave the room. She was not the meek, obedient type. She was unable not to have the last word.

“No, apparently not. But I am guilty of making a marriage match in a wave of _blinded and sentimental_ haste, perhaps. I certainly never thought I'd ever _do that_.” He bites out, before he stalked away, and shut the door with a harsh bang.

The final stipulation to their row.

Elizabeth sits back down on the bed, folding the eiderdown back across her feet. Lying back onto the bed. She curled back up onto her side. Before whacking the pillow opposite hers, hard, with her hand. And lobbing it off the bed. Letting it thud to the floor upon the other side of the room.

When the anger subsided, the tears came. And she cried until she gently drifted away to sleep

 

~

 

 

It it was getting on for being terribly late. Caroline was just heading back up the stairs to her room, when she heard the shouting. 

She paused, and turned, lifting her candle holder up and stopping to listen.

The shouting was coming from Thomas and Elizabeth's room. Loud enough to be heard through the walls as they snarled in disagreement at each other. 

She smiled.

She smiled like the fat cat that just ate the canary whole in one satisfying go. She grinned with glee. 

It appears her little scheme was unfolding before her, so _very_ beautifully. Exactly as she had orchestrated it. 

Turns out she had chosen a _very_ opportune moment to tell Anabelle to go and find Thomas out on the terrace. With that, she turned and headed for bed. 

 

She slept with a grin on her face, all night. 

 

 

~ 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth has, despite her well cultured debutante – husband hunting – ways, had, never once, been kissed on the mouth by a man until Thomas first kissed her that day when he called upon her. Before that, save for being kissed on the hand, she had never been kissed so passionately by a man in all her four and twenty years of life.


	91. Stinging Remarks, Angry Nieces and Broken Families...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's kinda short, oh, and I feel I must warn you. This story will get a lot sadder, before it get's any happier. Caroline has now destroyed the happiness of her first child, now, she will be making moves onto the second. I'm sorry in advance for all the angst and tears I will be writing your way. forgive me, but, author knows best x 
> 
> and P.S. There will be a happy ending - in a while.

 

 

 

Though she wished for all the world for it not to, the next day dawned. As dark and as ugly as the night before it had been. Conflict and the ragged memory of the sore disagreement hung over her every waking minute in the manner of which a vile black storm cloud dismally threatens a peaceful day. Promising to ruin it, and making no false claim it wouldn’t.

She awoke, her eyes seemed strained and arid from the amount of tears she had sobbed into her pillow last night. Her throat was painfully sore and parched. If she had to describe what she felt like, she wasn’t sure she could ever find the words. She hurt, but it wasn’t anything as potent as a sharp agony, it was dulled, like it had twined it’s miserable self right down, sinking into her very bones. It wasn’t a very demanding kind of ache, but it seemed to have drained her of every ounce of her courage and fire. She felt like an unpolished stone, which time had let go dull. She felt painfully extraordinary and plainly vapid. Ignoring the heaviness of her unrefreshed, sleepless eyes, she drags herself onto her immensely weighty limbs, and staggers to the washroom, even the cold water she splashes on her face does nothing to revive her.

She gives little care to her appearance, dressing quickly, muttering nothing but a bland greeting to Elsie who came to tie her loosely into her corset. Even the maid, usually afflicted with gobbiness of the extreme kind, knew today was a day to exercise silence. Thus with little care to her face, and pinning the worst of her unruly curls off her face, and twining them up onto her head. She offers a meek, and fleeting smile to dismiss Elsie, before sitting down to tap a tiny bit of perfume onto her wrists. Not bothering with any other decoration. As per the events of the evening that proceeded her. She didn’t see the point In decoration.

She trudges downstairs, finding the breakfast room delightfully empty. She didn’t want to have to bear explaining to her family the sordid tale of what had occurred with her husband last night. She sits herself at the end of the table, opposite to the door the other end of the room. She took solace in the fact no-one was here. Kenworthy. Kenworthy-Thatcher, Farrow, Burchrowe, Carlton, or otherwise. Whomever it was, she feared she’d pour out her tears, her worries and her emotions and her heart out to them, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever stop.

Everything was a mess.

Caroline spewing hatred out to her, of her family, and every fibre of her being, behind her back to her vile friends. Claimed all of the praise and responsibility for the ball she had not lifted a finger too. And then there was Suzetté. _Poor, sweet_ _Suzetté_. And that unmentionable animal, Audley, doing the most unspeakable of crimes to her. Then there _was-_

She choked up. Trying to squeeze back the tears before they got the better of her.

Then, well. Then… There was _Thomas and Anabelle._

She was thankfully distracted by Wilkin’s. Who silently padded into the room, his face as sombre, not pertaining it’s usual glint and air of sociability and pleasantness. But, she commits that to the fact that the entire ballroom, and the household staff knew what wretched thing had happened out on the terrace. With her husband, and another girl. She was sure gossip mills, parlours, and every kitchen in the county would be ripe with the news. The scandal.

But worst of all, would be the _pity._

The pity lining the eyes of her staff, her friends, her family, and even in perfect strangers. Their expressions softening, placing a condescending hand to her back and asking her how she was faring through this beastly business. As if she didn’t have a functional cell above her neck to weigh down her head with. If there was one thing she’d put to death, over all this, it would be for everyone to think she was going to be the meek, obedient and ornamental wife who’d persevere through such humiliation. She hated the blatant rumormongering that some ladies now considered as cruel form of sport. And as such, she’d do _everything,_ and take every ounce of energy and bravery she had left, to meet this head on, eyes blazing with her courage and her usual headstrong nature. She would try, as much a she felt herself able, to not allow them to know they had _gotten to her._

“Good Morning, Madam.” Wilkins spoke sombrely. Placing her post down in front of her. She didn’t even realise he had entered the room.

Elizabeth nodded.

“Could I have a pot of tea please, Wilkin’s.”

The Butler inclined his head.

“Of course. Anything to eat, Mi’Lady?…” He enquires gently.

She shakes her head, focusing on opening her letters.

With such a terse dismissal, he leaves, back through the side door and down to the kitchens. He didn’t like what he saw in the Duchess this morning. It was as if the vitality had been drained from her. That very spark of her energy and brilliance he had come to know and admire in his Mistress these past few weeks. Even this morning, it was nonsensical, he knew, but her eyes seemed duller than usual, not their normal shade of brilliant cobalt, and her hair, ordinarily the colour of a copper in the sun, seemed to have faded now to a sickly shade of auburn that suited her ill. Even her skin, why, it seemed so pale this morning, it was almost _transparent_. He realised then, that her reason for laughter, for happiness, and for her brilliance, had been tampered with. It had been _tarnished_. Something he thought as immovable, and as unspoiled, and as pure as anything on earth. The Duke and Duchesses love for one another, had been shattered by the events at the ball. And he never thought _he’d live_ to see a day where that would befall them. He knew he wasn’t supposed to show any emotion as the granite faced butler, but right then, he wanted to strangle whomever had hurt his devoted Employers, with his bare hands. And he knew many other staff in the kitchens felt much the same _violent_ inclination.

Elizabeth sat in silence, reading over her letter’s, and as such, was so absorbed in them, that she flinched in her seat when the dining room door opened.

And then her husband walked in.

She flicked her eyes up, taking him in, before resuming the point in her letters. He looked like he had slept just as ill as she had. The bags under his eyes, his cheeks looking more gaunt than usual. His white shirt was wrinkled, as was his ice silver waistcoat. As ever he had black breeches and boots on his criminally long legs, and his battered black boots on his feet. They had not been polished yet this morning. His hair was unkempt, and he had not yet shaven this morning. A faint shadow of stubble sat darkly on his cheeks. And his eyes looked bloodshot. His green cravat was tied unevenly, and looked crooked to her eyes. Her fingers ached to straighten it. But she soon dissolves herself of that proclivity. She instead fiddled idly with her letters, shifting onto the next page.

“Good Morning.” He swallows, speaking stiffly. His face betraying little emotion – which was so unlike him. Usually, he was an open book to peruse. Not this morning, it seems.

“Is it?” She answers rhetorically. Not taking her eyes from the paper below her.

Seeing that was her mood, he said nothing else. He simply placed himself at the head of the table, adjacent to her at the other end of the long dining table.

“Are we going to talk about what happened, Elizabeth?”

He asks after seconds of deafening silence, broken by the tick of a clock he had never noticed was so _loud_ before that moment. The peace and tension of the room seemed to amplify such a simple, sweet, harmonious, sound.

“I’ve no wish too.” She exclaims.

“Well. _I do.”_ He answers back sharply.

“If we’re going to do nothing but argue. I’d rather _brave_ the silence if it’s all the same with you.” She answers.

“I don’t want to brave the silence. I want to address what _happened_ …” He demands.

Elizabeth slammed her letters down. Unable to focus.

“ _Do you honestly_ believe it will make _a single scrap_ of difference if we sit here _talking about it?_ That won’t solve _anything_. It won’t make the, _heinous,_ situation disappear. _Will it?”_ She asks.

 _“No._ But it may absolve us from the evil potency of it.” He tells.

“Speak for yourself.” She mumbles lowly, daggering her icy eyes at him.

He tilts his head at her, grinding his jaw. Vitriol filling his veins, the angry vein in his neck straining to be let loose.

“You wish to _bitterly argue_ until we run out of ways to make each other miserable then, too _stubborn_ to hear me out?” He asks her.

“You’re off to a cracking head start in making me miserable Thomas. “ She assures him. “And you know full well when you married me, I am not the type to sit meek and obedient like some trained _lapdog_.” She growls, ironically, not unlike a small terrier. Her voice low, and her words snappy and short.

“I know full well what _type_ , you are _Elizabeth._ ” He assures her. “I never thought I’d come _to regret_ the attitudes which were at first so endearing, and admirable about you. _Now_ I find them to be a _phenomenal pain_ in my right honourable backside.” He snarls lowly.

She exhales a snort of disdain, grinds her jaw together, and fixates on a painting hung on the wall across from them. If she looked at his poison spewing, face for another second, she’d hurl a chair at him, _she was sure of it._

“Seeings as you will not discuss it, I will be so imprudent as to explain myself, and you will sit there, and you will bloody well listen to me, you stubborn _mare_...” He orders.

“ _Oh_ , you honey tongued flatterer..” She hisses sarcastically.

He marched on with his words as if she had never uttered a word.

“I went, out onto that terrace, looking for you. Because I had not seen hide nor hair of you in over half an hour, and I was beginning to get worried. I asked Ophelia, Violet, Felicity, your Father and even Edith. No one had seen you. That didn’t help my concern. I stepped outside, and crossed the patio, seeing if you were engaged in company or in confidence with someone in the gardens. Of which you were not. When I turned around to walk back. Anabelle was there, directly behind me cutting off my path. I bowed to her, and wished that to be the end of it. I tried to manoeuvre around her. But she held her ground firm in front of me…” He continued.

“I don’t want to _hear_ anymore…” Elizabeth croaked.

“That’s tough…” Thomas shrilled. Intending to carry on. “Because you’re going to…” He assured her.

She grabbed me, Elizabeth.” He told her firmly. “She grabbed me and _she kissed_ me…” He told.

“Thomas. _Stop it!”_ She bit out tersely.

She slammed her letters down onto the table and, the force at which she came to a stand threw the chair scattering back behind her. She didn’t want to hear another second. _She couldn’t._

“I don’t want to hear another word. Not _a single one_. _Do you hear me?_ DO you think its easy for me to hear about how another woman kissed you, how she was in your arms, kissing you on the mouth, and… I have been playing the sight of it over, and over _and over_ in my head, all night. I haven't slept a wink, not a one, for thinking of you, and her together. And it hurts me, alright Thomas? _It really hurts me…”_ She shouted, by the end of her speech the words were scraping painfully through her hoarse throat. It pained him to hear her voice so strained with pain and heavy with emotion. Heavy with the emotion of trying to hold tears and hysteria at bay.

Thomas took her words in carefully.

“What do you think forcing me to hear about it will accomplish? Do you think it will make me feel _any better?_ Or will it just _liberate you_ of some of your guilt. Because I tell you now, Kenworthy, if it’s the latter, then count me well and truly _out of it._ ” She demands from him. She lobbed the napkin she held in her hands back onto the table, and storms past him intending to make quick strides to her study and escape his presence She didn’t want to look at him right now. _She couldn’t._

His stomach lurches, and he looks to his booted feet as she strode past. The wall of the fragrance that was so heart-warmingly, _her_ , hit him in the face as a final blow to their argument. Honey, lilies and the lavender woven into her fiery hair. The very same scent he could always detected on his pillows when he went to sleep at night. Last night, he had slept fitfully without it. Such a sweet, simple thing about his wife he adored. A thing that made him hurt right down to his very core at this moment. He hated that.

She was right. He didn’t know why he was so intent and eager to tell her what happened. Maybe he was trying to offload himself off the gut gnawing guilt he felt about what had happened. But he was also filled to the brim with an irrational anger. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, and snarl how she would always be the only woman he had, and ever would, want.

_But he couldn’t._

He let her walk away, and as he strides disappeared. His heart sunk deeper and deeper into despair. He had really made a mess of things this time.

As Elizabeth exits the breakfast room, she has the unfortunate experience of running into Iris, Edith and Violet as they made their way down to the informal dining room. They scatter in the wake of the down casted and raging Duchess, who, trying not to let the tears fall, slides past her family and friends and makes quick work of the distance to her study to enjoy some solitude. As Iris and Violet look off in the direction that Elizabeth was storming off in. Edith pays more attention to the downhearted man stood in the middle of the dining room, looking as truly lost and miserable as she had ever seen him. He looked small, and afraid. He looked like a boy again. Not the grown man he once was. His frame and posture looked ashamed and dejected.

Perhaps what was worse for Edith was seeing two of the people she admired most in the whole world, and who she _never thought_ would argue for how mad in love they were, and she never thought she’d live to see that day dawn, how they were now not able to be in the same room as one another. It tore her to pieces to see that. To see her role models so fallen from grace, from the pedestals she had placed them on all her life.

“What happened?” Iris asked gently. Her silver eyes full of warm, molten concern.

“You hadn’t heard?” He asked fearfully “I would have thought the whole of England has had it by now..” He grumbled.

Iris shook her head, all the more at a loss for the truth.

“Would have _had what_ Thomas?” She asked in desperation.

“I kissed Anabelle Hastings last night, at the ball. Or, she kissed me. And Elizabeth saw.” He told them.

Violet looked shocked. Iris looked as if she wanted to cry. But Edith…

He didn’t see how quickly his niece had moved until she was in front of him. And he felt it too. In the way she walked right up to him, extended her palm, and slapped him. _hard_ , right across the cheek. It jolted the breath right out of him, and made strands of his ink hair fly into his eyes. He opened his jaw, and looked her in the face, not angry or perturbed. But he saw Edith looked vitriolic. She was shaking with white rage, her eyes glowed bright with anger and her face was contorted into stony hatred.

“Edith!” Iris gasped from across the room.

“You deserved that.” His niece hissed lowly.

Thomas nodded.

“I did.” He rasps. Shocked stiff and upset to see her so angry at him.

“I didn’t do that for Elizabeth. I didn’t even do it for the sake of my yet unborn cousin, god help. I did that to perhaps make you realise, dear uncle, that you’ve upset the one person in this world who has ever looked up to you as the most infallible role model, if ever there was one.” She snapped harshly.

“Forgive me, Edith..” He spoke softly. Voice full of emotion.

She shook her head for ‘no’

“Not until you’ve put this atrocity of a situation right, like my Uncle in his right mind would.” She insists.

“Edith that’s enough…” Iris chides, stepping into the room.

“Edith, I am sorry…” He tells her.

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs an apology.” She speaks, her tone low and dismayed.

With that, he watches the second woman he had disappointed for that day, turn on her heel and leave the room.

Thomas soon followed suit, Leaving Violet and Iris giving concerned looks to each other. Parts of this family were falling apart faster than a house built on sand foundations. Thomas runs into Benedict heading for the breakfast room as he leaves it, making a miserable beeline for his study, and his bottle of whisky.

“Thomas?” Benedict asked. A true testament to how concerned Benedict was, he even used his friends given first name, rather than just _‘Kenworthy’_ as he always did.

“You alright?” His friend enquires after him.

Thomas didn’t even turn, he just carried on trudging away down the corridor. His demeanour shrunken and small. And it was terribly hard for a six foot four man such as he to look insignificant. His stance made it impossible, But Thomas made it look effortless.

“I need a drink..” He explained

“It’s eight in the morning..” Benedict called after him.

Thomas carried on traipsing away. His cheek stinging from Edith's slap. His pride sore from what a sorry sight of a man he had become overnight.

“I’ll make it a small one then.” He informs his friend.

Thomas’s hand hardly ever touched the drink bottle. Benedict’s worries were not assuaged from what a bad shape his friend was in.

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia is actually, for all her eccentric merits, is actually as sharp as a tac. She speaks russian, german, ancient greek, and french fluently. She has an IQ of 187, she can also read several ancient languages and hieroglyphics. She nearly married a wealthy russian prince in her youth, and she was offered to study at Cambridge as her thesis and writings were so brilliant, provided on the conditions she never told anyone, due to the colleges reputation being in tatters should anyone discover that they were letting a woman study at a University. She refused their offer. Stating she ‘had better things to do than sit around and waste her brain on sexist old dinosaurs like them,’ and also complained that their grammar in their acceptance letter to her was very ill, and when she met with them, that her tea was too hot, and that the chandelier in their prestigious entry way was too dusty. Ophelia remains a dark horse, and prefers to spend her days teaching her parrot to sing indecent limericks. She is tremendously happy with her life, exactly the way It is. She wouldn’t wish to change a thing, and has lived her life to it’s fullest, with no regrets, she concludes.


	92. Beethoven, Heart's, and Piano's...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's very fluffy..... pure, in fact....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugh&Iris's Song: beethoven sonata 14 in C sharp   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU

 

It had been years.

More precisely, it had been exactly _4_ years since she had been to this particular corner of the house.

Something as of late had been sat resolutely in her mind, an immovable, unshakable thought that sat there and plagued her both night and day. It had been quiet at first. But over the recent days of late it had grown so in volume, that it was all she could do to ignore it. She looked down at the solid iron key sat gingerly in her palm. Rusty. Of course. As was everything about her life before the war. Even the memories were rusty now, faded, as if it were a fine picture that had been placed in the suns light for too long. Bleached of colour, and their vibrancy.

She weighed the small, solid object in her palm. Sighing. It had taken her a generous amount of heartache and pain to rifle through her thing’s to find it again, tucked away at the bottom of drawer. Her new life piled atop it, managing to keep it a well disclosed secret. The reason she had bravely decided to delve back into the past was because she finally felt _ready_. It felt like after so many years of lying lifeless, and in pain, someone had finally breathed life, and sunny joy back into her body. It was the loveliest feeling, she had decided. One that made her, as a consequence, want to settle her mind with her own past.

She seized her courage, stepped towards the door, slid the key into the lock, twisted the old door open, and pushed with all her might. The door gave way, allowing her to see not one spec of the room had changed since it had been locked by her brother four years ago. She, having been too weak to face it, had asked him to keep it shut away, so she didn’t have to grieve over loosing what was inside. Memories, old and distant, came flooding back, making her bite back an urgent sob, as hot tears bit her eyes, and to Iris’s very great surprise, stood looking into the dark, dusty old room that smelt like musty wood, and ancient violin polish, she astounded herself, because she _smiled_.

It all came flooding back to her now. All the little things she has buried in her mind. The way his hair was brushed with the brightest wheaten gold when the light shone onto it, even though it was dark and chestnut hued when out of it. The way his smile, wide and unapologetic, creased his eyes when he grinned at her. The way he would sit and listen to her play, the way she remembered which pieces were his favourites.

She remembered _it all_ with a fond smile on her lips, though her eyes pricked with hot tears.

Iris crossed to the window and drew back the ancient, dusty curtains, giving them a good shake, watching, hypnotised, as specks of dust danced, and swam in the shaft of sunlight that brought the room back to life once more. The faded wallpaper instantly cheered up, and the light bounced off all the bright gild that time had let grow dull. What’s more, the shaft of mid -morning sunlight found its way to spotlight the piano sat, dusty and dejected, on the lacklustre carpet. She crossed to it from the window, running her hand along the instrument as she walked, feeling the dry dust and the cold polished top of it slide under her palm. Uncaring for the filth on the piano’s stool, she sat anyway, and folded her plain grey skirts under her as she sat.

Her hands instantly remembered where to go, her fingers wasted not a second in finding the old position on the keys that she was so used to when she sat at the instrument before her. It was a Broadwood & Sons mahogany grand piano. The latest. Of course, it was old hat now. A museum piece in comparison to the latest models, she was sure, now it probably belonged in a mausoleum. Yet, Iris didn’t care. It was sentimental to her. It had been a wedding present from Thomas. Who saw it in the window of one of the finest piano makers in London on one of his many bachelor excursions and simply knew instantly that Iris had to have it. One of the numerous wedding presents he seemed only all too ecstatic to buy for her and John’s enjoyment as a wedded couple.

She can just remember the day he called her down as they were moving it in, and him and John had smiled watching her play it for the first time. Applauding loudly when she finished. 

Then she laughed because she remembered Thomas, as a young, energetic boy, coercing Mrs Robson, The elderly old housekeeper, into a mad waltz around the room as she brought them all a tray of afternoon tea. She could still hear herself laughing over the music, her fingers stumbling inelegantly across the keys, and John too, his laughter that sounded like audible velvet to her ears, and Mrs Robson’s shrill protests as she called Thomas a villainous young scoundrel whilst they galloped madly around the room to the tune, dancing steps that weren’t even considered anything, _remotely_ , like a waltz.

She was pleased to remember such a happy time in her life, how she had laughed and smiled so freely. In front of her, on the sheet stand, she found all the parchment sheets of all the things she was so practiced at. Beethoven, Handel, Bach, and Schubert. Victorian society had always been keen to label the last two composers as far too manifold. But she _didn’t mind_ them.

She pulled up the Beethoven from the bottom of the dusty pile, and smoothed out the crinkled paper in her hands, before making it stand tall in front of her, seeing if her hands could remember the complex melody of Piano Sonata No.14 in C- Sharp. It was popular, there was no doubting that, and she had never been one for following general mentality, she could get lost in every well timed crescendo and every skilfully placed note. It gave her gooseflesh to hear it. Not when she played, of course, she could just about stumble her way through it.

And then, Iris Thatcher-Kenworthy did something that she had not done for four years, and sat, stole a fortifying breath, and then began to [play.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU)

It flowed out of her. The way her hands flew from one key to the other, sweeping the melody along with her skilled hands, and finds her way through the music. In a way she never imagined she would so easily after all these years of loss, pain, heartbreak and grief. It all came pouring out of her in waves and storms. Though she was playing, she could remember. She could remember John, How he would sit by the window, in his armchair, her best audience, always appreciative, always there to hear her play. He would sit, with his books, and a tray of tea, sipping idly every now and then. Watching the steam from it rise into the air and dissolve. Sat there in his grey tweed suit looking better and more impeccable than any man of the gentry she knew. Twice as handsome too. With his thick, reddy dark hair, and his smile that could warm her right through to her _spine_ just to _see_ it.

She looked across, seeing said furniture horribly empty when it should have been filled by him, her favourite onlooker, smiling across to her how beautifully talented she was.

Her hands stopped and she watched dust twirl in the light, speckled across the air, landing on the hollow, dust strewn, faded green armchair. The urgency of the proud emerald fabric had long since left, and in its place was left a sickly, ailing shade of putrid moss. She only realised tears had left her eyes, and her hands had stopped playing when a voice startled her out of her reverie.

“You play better than any talented musician Iris…”

Came a gentle humble, gentleman’s soft voice from the doorway across the room.

Startled she peered across the room, her mouth hung slightly open, and tears wetting her pale cheeks, leaking down from her stormy silver eyes which now shone the colour of an overcast stormy sky. She was relieved, if startled only a little, to see Hugh stood in the doorway, his stance asking politely if he could come in. His top hat was nowhere to be seen, and he was dressed finely in that sapphire overcoat that brought out the brilliancy in his seafoam eyes. His cravat knotted neatly and his brown boots polished to a mirror shine. On his face, he wore an expression that was both tender and concerned.

She opened her mouth to offer both an explanation and an apology. But words would not bring themselves to get past her teeth.

“ _Please_ ….” He spoke with a caring smile which told her that she needn’t offer anything of the sort in explanation. Be it an apology or otherwise. He shook his head gently. Letting her know it was absolutely unnecessary.

“May I come in?” He asked kindly.

She nodded eagerly. Wiping her tears away as more threatened to tumble down. He moved slowly, coming reverently, into the room beside her. His movements reflecting the humbling nature of his character. He didn’t barge in on her solitude, and her pain. He eased in, if only to offer comfort to her. His hand reached in for his crisp handkerchief square, which he then offered across. She took it, mumbling her thanks to him for such a welcome gesture. She swiped it across her cheeks and mumbled her thanks once more to him.

“Beethoven.” He smiled lightly down to her. “Sonata No. 14, unless I’m very much mistaken…” He beams.

She smiled timidly at his having recognised it. It was one of her favourites. She was warmed right through to know he liked it too.

“Please don’t let me interrupt you. I’ll go, and let you continue.”

He apologises. Turning to walk away. Knowing her pain was something he wasn’t going to try and interfere in. Though he was anxious to know what caused her tears. He wasn’t going to pry.

Iris hooked her hand to hold his before she could stop herself. He looked down at her, her hand on his made his body leap and his lips part. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so disjointed and so…. absurdly _right_ just from her skin touching his.

“Please… _Please. Stay_.” She asks, her cheeks warming slightly at the abrupt nature of her body within the vicinity of him.

“I don’t want to be alone. Now. I-“

She swallowed, gesturing for him to join her on the piano stool. He too, took no consideration for the dust. He sat next to her, gently taking in her every word. His eyes not leaving her for even a second. Though usually she would be unnerved by such attention from a man’s eyes being on her, because they were his, she rather softened to the way that he made her feel breathless and skittish.

“Do you know I haven’t been inside this room now, for almost, four years…” She begins to explain. Her voice coming out oddly even, though her entire body felt tender, and weakened.

“I used to play, to John, when we were courting, he would sit there for _hours,_ in the armchair listening to me play. Then when we were married, he could sit there all day, he used to say, listening to me, and he used to call me _entirely_ his favourite musician in the world.” She explained, smiling softly, laughing at the end of her words, though her eyes still glimmered with unshed tears.

“What made you want to play again? After such a long time?” He asks curiously.

She looks across at him. And at her eyes aligning directly with his, lightning, or something very similar in feel too it, rocked through her body.

“ _You_.” She answers in a timid gasp. Her voice definitely uneven now.

“Me?” He blinks, his breath coming just that little bit faster. Unable to believe his own ears.

“Before I knew what I was doing, I found the key and this morning my feet steered me here and I let myself in. And, do you know, for the first time in a _long time_ , I found – I.” She swallowed again, her mouth dry and parched.

He tilted his head, and it was only when his thumb swiped gently over the knuckle of her index finger did she realise that their hands were still joined on the stool between them. Her mouth gaped again at seeing that, and though swayed, she carried on in her explanation.

“For the first time, I-I was happy. I was happy thinking of John, and realising it didn’t leave me heartbroken as it usually did. I remember how he used to sound when he laughed, the exact shade of his eyes, his hair in the sunlight, his smile. His voice. I could remember. And, It - it _didn’t hurt_ anymore…” She whispered as if she couldn’t believe it.

More tears now were streaking down her cheeks. He didn’t need to ask permission, and she didn’t need to give it to him either. His free hand reached over to sweep them away. And he swallowed watching her speak such heartfelt words.

“ _It didn’t hurt.”_ She cried. “I can play, and be in this room where he used to be, and live, and laugh and it _didn’t hurt.”_ She spoke in amazement.

Hugh didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Instead he clasped her hand tighter, smiling at seeing her smile again too. And it was a true smile, her eyes lightening, softening also and the wonderful creases in her cheeks appeared as she beamed brightly.

“It feels like I’ve been in pain for four, _miserable_ , long years, and today, _I wasn’t anymore_. And it was all because of you.” She smiles. “You’ve brought me back _to life,_ Hugh Everett.” She hushes and smiles. Clutching hard onto his hand.

Tears were welling in his own eyes now. Watching her pour her soul out to him.

“I don’t know _how I did_.” He explained humbly. Shaking his head.

“All I _do know_ is, I thought I could never deserve to love someone _as good_ , and kind hearted as you. Iris. You gave me hope.” He told her. “And that’s the _finest thing of all_ to a man like me who has felt bleak and shadowed in misery every second of every day of his adult life.” He explained.

Iris swallowed.

“You’re not going to Marry Audley, then?” Hugh asked in a terrified, low voice. Watching as her fingers linked so finely through his own, belonging.

Iris shook her head resolutely.

“Not.” She told him with a smile.

Hugh smiled.

“What of your Mother?” Hugh asks.

“Can tend on the tenacious side. And with the whole Thomas, Elizabeth, Anabelle scandal, I can’t pretend to consider Audley as a suitor anymore to know she is capable of causing such sordid misery.” She explains, ever the kind hearted woman who couldn’t breathe a bad word about anyone

“Don’t trust his façade of goodness, Iris. Believe me when I tell you that man is capable of truly horrific things. He is not to be trusted on any account. No matter how acceptable his pretence.” He warns.

Iris nods.

“Would you do something for me?” He asks gently.

“ _Anything_ …” Iris smiles. Wiping away the trails of her dried tears.

“Play Beethoven again. As if John was here. Play it _for him_ , as if he was back in his armchair being the most appreciative audience you’ve ever had.” Hugh urges bravely.

“I promise you the pain will ease in remembering how happy he was here, sat, contented, listening to you. Things won’t seem so painful after that, I sware.” He offers. Preaching his words as softly and as gently as he would when he was up at the pulpit. His voice reverent and kind.

Iris smiles. He really was a selfless man. He understood all that she had lost in loosing John. Having lost his own wife, he knew how she felt.

Iris looked across to the chair. And smiled at it. Before their hands untwined from holding the others, and he settled comfortably on the stool to watch her. She braced her arms in the familiar position once more. And again, she lets the music come. Along with the last dregs of pain that were being dragged up in knowing that John wasn’t there anymore. But, not necessarily in his place, but in the void he left, that Hugh was there to comfort her through it. He couldn’t ever hope to replace John. To even think of such a thing was the height of foolishness. But he could hope to be the person Iris needed in her life. Because he needed her like the world needed the sun. He knew without a doubt that his would be dull and dark forever without her.

He watched her carefully as she played, her hands slowly finding one key after the next, slowly the melody progressed, and another tear did drip from her eyes, but it would be remiss of him to think she could play without letting them fall in fond memory. He couldn’t take his eyes from the mesmerising sight of her beauty as she focused, and lost herself in the piece. Her body swayed and dipped with each crescendo, each crashing movement made her animated. She didn’t just play the music, she felt it. She let herself feel _each_ and _every_ single note.

Her hands came down with a final, body jarring stop as she let the last note ring out of the instrument, spirited away, dissolving off into the room. She let out a breath. And true to what he said. There was no pain. She looked across at John’s chair, and the sunlight winked off the windowpane at her. Glinting at her warmly in a way that made her feel uplifted and proud. She’d never truly get to say her goodbye to John. But she could rid herself of the pain of losing him. Hugh had helped her _see how_. With his friendship, and his comfort. He had helped her smile, when she never thought she’d laugh again.

She turned back to Hugh, refocusing back into real life. Turning into him as he smiled at her. His seaweed coloured eyes raking across her face.

“Truly talented.” He hushed softly, shaking his head as he smiled at her.

Iris smiled.

“Thankyou.” She whispered sweetly. Another sweet tear christening her cheek.

“It should be _me_ thanking _you_.”

He smiles promisingly, and her body jolted with nerves as she realised suddenly how close they were, sat pressed close to each other. Not maintaining the proper distance that there should have been between an unwed woman, and a single man.

Iris shakes her head in disagreement, her breath feeling insufficient for her lungs. And her heart suddenly felt like it was swollen. Atleast three times much too big for her chest.

His hand couldn’t stop itself, he reached up and cupped the side of her face, turning her mouth towards him, letting her tears sink away into his soft palm as he did. He swallowed, his body feeling more uncontrollable with every inch closer he got to her. Her hand covers his across her cheek. Feeling his touch made her go weak. She closed her eyes to better try and get a hold of the feelings that were shivering, wracking through her.

“ _Hugh_ …” She warns in a sweet sigh

He was lost to her, hearing his name breathed out so finely from her lovely lips.

It all stopped the instant his lips touched hers, she shook, she swooned, she melted into him. His free hand went gently to the back of her waist, touching her softly as if he was worried she would break under his attentions. It had been what felt like several long lifetimes since she had felt so loved, adored and admired under a man’s touch.

“Forgive me.” He breathes in apology onto her lips when they pull away. Fireworks, or something equally as violent thereabouts were coursing powerfully through his veins.

“I can see _nothing_ about that which requires my forgiveness…” She promises timidly, her cheeks tinting pink as she smiles.

He smiles, cupping her neck as he pressed his forehead to hers and chuckles warmly. Smiling manically, she watches his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and she realises that close up, he is just as mystifyingly handsome as ever.

 _“I don’t deserve you.”_ He whispers seemingly to himself. Admiring her in a way that let her feel his eyes sliding across her face.

“… There we have _a difference_ of opinion.” Iris smiled sweetly.

Hugh beamed at her.

“I’m more than glad you disagree.” He informs her

She grins back. And in that moment, Iris truly knew that her heart had sold itself away to him. And she never wanted to give this delightful creature up.

“My hearts yours, Hugh.” She promised. Because she couldn’t not say it. It was the truth. “I think it has been for... quite a few weeks now.”

“How fortunate…” Hugh smiled.

“Because mine belongs just as wholly to you.” He promises. Holding her hand tighter. 

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the night of the Ball. Before she went to sit with Elizabeth, Ophelia spent a lot of her time circulating throughout her more tolerable close friends and acquaintances. Demanding off them any scandal or information she could find on The Earl of Audley. People who didn't divulge their details, ended up getting their toes mangled by the brute force of her cane as a consequence. Sir Basil Brunswick (a mean, fat, tightfisted, cruel gossip) had a couple of his toes fractured for his trouble. No-one restricts information from Ophelia. Especially not if they value any of their bones remaining intact.


	93. Great Great Aunt's, Fear's, and Safe Budding Romances...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler alert for next chapter: angst a-plenty...
> 
> Elizabeth's last reverie, is wrong. Nothing is safe from Caroline. She has some tricks up her sleeve - she hasn't even started breaking hearts yet...

 

 

 

That Same Day, in a very Different Part of the House… ~

 

Suffice to say. Not much conversation delighted the atmosphere in the Duchesses study for the rest of the day. When Edith slunk in for her French lesson shortly after twelve o’clock, Elizabeth barely heard the timid rattle of a knock come to the study door. Elizabeth peered across the room, seeing Edith silently cramming herself through the smallest measurable gap of the door which she hadn’t opened fully. Elizabeth blinked, jolting into life once more. Standing she let her hand ghost up one last time across her face to fully ensure the trails of the salty tears that fell earlier had well and truly gone.

“Sorry, Edith, I _completely_ let slip of what the time was. Do come in.” She smiles meekly to the girl. Wringing her hands somewhat as she idled by her desk. Edith had yet to see her headstrong Aunt idle like a floundering imbecile. It wasn’t _at all_ in her nature.

“That is understandable...” Edith hushes in a small, repressed voice. Nervously clinging to her books. Not letting her self say another word for fearing she’d tread on sore ground. She didn’t trust herself not too. So silence was what she deemed was safer for now.

Elizabeth took in the slight wariness of her niece stood before her.

“So, _shall we?”_ Elizabeth asks, gesturing to the settee beside them with a smile that didn’t make her, nor Edith, _any_ the happier. In actual fact, It only seemed to brighten the pain in her fathomless blue eyes all the more.

They both took their places, at opposite ends, Edith cradled the French book, split with its pages open in her lap. Its yellow pages searching up, keen to be read from. But just this once, the delightful diversion of a book was not quite as tantalising to Edith as it should have been. She was far more interested in searching into the obvious pain of the woman sat next to her.

“Um. I think we got to page, _ten_ , last time…” Edith begins cautiously.

Elizabeth nods, smiling what she hoped came off as an encouraging smile.

Only to Edith, it came off as miserable as ever. Her aunt’s usually warm, beautifully sweet smile, was haunted by the redness rimming her pale eyes. Her eyes, as she had said, still plagued by sadness. The exact colour of a shaded ocean, Edith _nearly_ could feel for her pain, pinpricking at ever one of her pores to get out. But she was too stoic and stiff upper lipped to let it. If Edith knew her, at all, she would suffocate her pain deep, deep down as best she was able. She wasn’t one to openly wallow in misery.

Edith folded the book back, resting it to sit more easily on her lap. Feeling the spine creak and crack, rustling to life under her hands. She found herself on the page, her eyes finally leaving Elizabeth to read from the page.

“Ainsi toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages. Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour. Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges. Jeter l'ancre un seul jour…” She read, humbly, swerving through the words in flawless French.

She looked at her aunt again, with a touch of nervousness.

“Trés bonne.” Elizabeth congratulated in a hoarse voice, before she cleared her throat. “Continuez s’il vous plâit.” She ordered politely.

To her credit, Elizabeth felt, Edith read atleast another line before her tolerance seemed to snap like a frail cobweb in the morning’s frost.

“O lac! l'année à peine a fini sa carrière. Et près des flots chéris….. _Oh_.”

She let the book tumble shut on her lap, slamming her hands atop it. Her good natured patience having been worn thin. The humbleness, Elizabeth just knew, was a trait she inherited from Iris. The sudden outburst of curiosity and frankness, she hazarded a guess, came from John’s side of the family. It was no less an admirable quality.

Her face looked near indignant. Her fine young brow crinkled, and her lips formed a determined line. Elizabeth met this look with raised brows, her gentle smile awaiting whatever Edith was about to shrill at her.

“He _couldn’t_ have meant it. _He couldn’t!! I’m positive!_ I’ve known the man since the day I _was born, Elizabeth_ , Seen him every day. He wouldn’t do something _so disastrous_ toward you! I _cannot_ and _will not_ believe he ever could. Please. You **_HAVE_** to believe me!” She cried desperately. Her face contorting into painful agony as she spoke.

Elizabeth looked kindly at her for a long moment, before she reached over and laid her hands upon Edith’s, atop the book. Clasping it gently.

“I _do_ believe you. _Most ardently_. You are so very sweet Edith, and I see I am not mistaken in the sense that you inherited every speck of your mother’s goodness.” She confirmed gently. Her voice was oddly even. Though inside, her organs felt mangled, everything felt turned upside down. She almost was not sure how to feel. She’d never been more lost or shaken up by her emotions.

“But…” She began, down casting her eyes, before she spoke again.

“ _I’m afraid_.” She spoke simply.

And on hearing that from the strongest woman she knew, her idol, her role model. Edith’s ribs squeezed in on themselves. Her chest crushing in on itself, tight with sorrow.

“… Do you know, _I’m never_ afraid. But if there’s one thing on heaven and earth that scares me more than any evil. It is that Thomas is starting to doubt his affections for me. Doubting that he loves me. That terrifies me worse than anything else I’ve ever known.” She spoke, almost breathlessly. She sank back into the sofa, her back slumping into the arc of the chair, taking her weight. At seeing her usual rigid elegance falter, Edith holds back her tears. The smiles, the geniality, it was all a mask, cleverly concealing all of her pain from everyone else. 

She wet her lips and met Edith’s eyes with a truthful stare.

“I cannot believe he would _ever_ doubt his love for you.”

Her niece spoke quietly. It was nearly a whisper. But the pain in her voice made Elizabeth’s gut tug with even more sadness.

“He admitted to me he thinks himself guilty of making a marriage match in blinded and sentimental haste. Which, now I think about it, wouldn’t be _completely_ inconceivable.” Elizabeth supposes.

Edith was silent. And, like Elizabeth, she _usually always_ had something to say.

“We met, courted around London if but, _three_ times, and then he asked for my hand, and _two weeks_ later we were _wed_. I was _so_ …”

She broke, to sigh in pure pain before she carried on.

“…. I was _enchanted,_ by this man. This handsome, kind gentleman whom I was quite certain I had fallen in love with from one _mere_ glance. _One look,_ and I was… _his_. My heart completely _sold_ itself to him from first glance. And there was _nothing_ I could do, _no way_ to retrieve it. It was the most – _and the only_ \- powerful love I had ever known. To know he felt the same, was, bliss. And now to find out he may _not._ I can’t even begin to describe to you how those words of his _pained me_. And still continue to. I _ache_ still from them, Edith. And Now, with Anabelle……I’m not entirely sure I’ll _ever_ be _free_ from the agony of it.” She informs her niece.

“She is the most _vile_ , abominable girl.” Edith spat.

“I don’t blame her overmuch.” Elizabeth spoke softly.

” _Not really_.” She muttered

Edith couldn’t look more taken aback by this confession if she tried.

“Anabelle is, I want to say _harmless_ … But…”

She shrugs. She wasn’t exactly ‘harmless’ considering the pain and strife she had caused the Kenworthy family. Given the acute vulgarity of her actions, Elizabeth knew – beyond doubt - she certainly _wasn’t_ the one to blame.

“She is not masterminding this. She is many things, I grant her, among them, jealous, petty, and immature and maybe even self-centred. But her ruthless obsession with Thomas had been fuelled by fantasy, and desire. Someone cooing sweet, saccharine promises of happiness and requited love into her ears of how best to separate him and me. And I can take a _very well_ educated guess at just exactly _who_  could concoct such a coincidental scandal.” She spoke slowly. Meeting Edith’s cobalt gaze, which turned hot with her insinuation, the Duchess could see they brightened, firing with anger

“That… _Witch_.”

Edith snapped angrily. Her hands clasped so tightly on her lap her knuckles were strained bright white. Her fists _shook_ with fury.

Elizabeth was touched at such volcanic rage on her and her estranged husband’s behalf.

“She’s _too clever_ to come between me and Thomas herself. _No._ she had to send one of her foul devotees to do her bidding.” She spoke lowly, with plenty of disdain in her tone.

Elizabeth was learning the pain of having something so pure and untouchable. Something, she _had_ thought, like the love her and her husband had for each other. It seemed at times, so _rare_ a thing, so pure and indestructible. And now, with the schemes of one woman, all that had come tumbling down around her in shards.

She didn’t know what was sadder, that she had once had something so _fine_ , and _untainted_ that she had been utterly naive in thinking she could have it for life, or, the fact that she felt like Caroline had defeated her and tugged it all out from under her in _one_ fell swoop, and that was that.

“What can _we do?”_ Edith asked, almost in desperation.

“ _I_ could, _I could_ , go to Thomas and… I. _I_ could say that...” She began, her brain straining to search for ways to rectify the situation.

Elizabeth smiled.

“I’m touched by your devotion, Edith.” She fully smiled, her eyes even lightened a little. So she must have fully meant what she said.

" _Truly I am_ " she smiled. 

“But I think the best course of action would be to leave the tender situation as it is for now, _and-“_

She began, but whatever she had been about to say, was abruptly halted by an extremely loud clang, followed by a crash that would only be what sounded like crockery and silverware being dumped on a tiled floor from a great height. Scattering across the fine, polished tiles, scattering to a noisy death onto the floor below. After such came a loud bellowing cry of;

“TWADDLE AND ROT! HE _NEVER!”_ came the thunderous, loudly infuriated shout.

Elizabeth met Edith’s eyes. There was only one person in the house whose voice that was, and only could ever, have been. Not a second later, as both Duchess and niece sat in confounded silence, unsure just exactly what to make of that outburst. Not too far off in the distance, beyond the Duchesses study door, came the repetitive clank of rigid, and precise footsteps, resolute and sure in their determined stride, along with the hollow sly clank of a walking stick accompanying the sound of the veritable regiment march of a person who was making their way towards with Elizabeth’s study. With all the hell fury and vengeance of Beelzebub, and all his hellish companions, that was possible to be mustered by one elderly old spirit.

The door flew open, having been whacked inwards, clanging open against the wall, possibly even leaving decent sized dents gouged out of the wallpapered wall from the ferocity of such a severe blow that Elizabeth didn’t think was possible to stem from such a rickety, frail old lady of nine and eighty. And there, in the doorway, Stood Ophelia in all her mighty glory. Looking for all the worlds’ eye, as an immovable tempest of a human being. She ceased to be an infirm old aunt, she was now, a force of nature.

And _god help_  and have mercy anyone who went _against_ her in such a state.

Her face reminded Elizabeth similarly of a bulldog who used to live three doors down from her inLondon, on Montague Street. Owned by a doddery old army colonel who was impossibly ancient, but nonetheless, even with his frailty, he owned a big, brute sized animal of a bulldog, named Thornsford. Whomhad a steadfast, headstrong bruiser-type personality, and whose scrunched face was always wrinkled, and hunched into a permanent doggy scowl. His little piggy nose protruding from his rumpled face and slobbering row, upon flabby row of jowls, and as his eyes moved, and roved in his sockets, they were always glinting black like scuttering shiny beetles.

Thornsford, Elisabeth thought, looked remarkably alike Ophelia in her rage at this moment. Her face was screwed and contorted into displeasure. Her eyes looked like they usually did, sunk deep into her old, wrinkled face the manner in which raisins would partially submerge into rock cakes. But her shrivelled eyes today, were colder than ice, and harder than flint to look at. Set very firmly in their anger. Her mouth was a ruler straight line, pursed tight together in discontentment. Which made the wrinkles all around her puckering lips all the more prominent. She stabbed her cane into the floor like a scalpel with every step she took. Now she halted at the door looking in at the two – confused – and cautious ladies on the sofa.

“Is it of any truth?” She asked stiffly. Glowering at her relatives like they were the devil themselves. Elizabeth sighed. It would not be Ophelia, did she not shoot straight to the point. The woman was a literal arrow.

“Is _what_ of any truth?” Elizabeth thought it best to ascertain. Uncertain whether or not she’d have her head snapped off.

“The sordid claptrap about that brazen _twit_ kissing my great great nephew last night at the ball.”

Ophelia spoke curtly. Her face as if she has eaten a basketful of sour lemons at the merest reference towards Anabelle Hastings. She tottered her furious way further into the room, leaving the door ajar behind her.

Elizabeth and Edith flinched each time her cane struck the floor. She truly was a force to behold. Draped in all her usual finery. Today she wore a hideous mustard gown, with armies of rings on her bony fingers, as always, and some poor carcass of a furry animal was not today around her neck, but instead Elizabeth saw her shoes _had eyes_. _No shoes should ever have eyes._ But trust Ophelia to be the one exception to the sensible rules of fashion, she thought. She could see some doomed reptile encased her heeled feet. Fated for all eternity and its miserable afterlife to spend stamping around in company with the old woman. Her hair, as usual, was pulled back into the strictest bun, allowing her beaky, pale face to protrude forth. She rounded the both of them on the settee, and lumped her spindly bones to rock onto the armchair beside the dwindling fireplace. Lit to keep away the sluggish damp of the spitting grey rain persisting outside. The glow as the only cheery, amber thing in the room. Everything else felt faded and sombre.

Ophelia rested back into the chair, but kept one talon of her clawed over the head arch of her cane. Today was not the silver parrot’s head, but a golden badger was awaiting them today. Its eyes twinkling dully across at them expectantly, much like its owner. Ophelia was looking pointedly at Elizabeth.

“Yes. It is true.”

“ _Pfft._ Utter _Tripe_!” Ophelia scoffed out in a short sharp staccato bark. Not to be deterred from her own good opinion.

“It’s true...” Edith reluctantly confirmed.

“ _Codswallop!”_ Ophelia persisted.

“Who _was_ that poor unlucky soul you assaulted when first you heard?”

Elizabeth enquired kindly, gesturing outside the doors to the large, ear splitting crash they heard, which was, in essence Ophelia announcing her glorious presence. In the distance she could vaguely hear the gulping sobs of a particularly distraught housemaid along with the gentle dull scooping of a brush sweeping up whatever had been damaged and splintered in Ophelia’s irate wake.

“This is _not_ what we are about you know. Mr K should have _known better_. For the way that upstarting _tart_ has always flitted after him like a bloodhound on the hunt…” Ophelia growled to herself as she mumbled under her breath.

Elizabeth sighed. Clearly, Ophelia’s mind was on a strictly one-track subject today. And nor would she be budged so lightly from _said_ subject. Unbeknownst to the angered old aunt, her truthful words caused a flaring dagger of pain to shoot straight to Elizabeth’s heart. To hear that Anabelle had always loved him didn’t ease any of her fears. Edith flashed her aunt a sorrowful look. Finding her hand and holding it tight. Elizabeth sighed lightly.

Then, she couldn’t help it, she was curious, she had to ask. The words came tripping from her lips before she could stop them.

“Has she, ever, declared her affections for Thomas? Or made any attempt to pursue him before?” She asked shakily. She was afraid. She was in pain. She was very scared of what answer she would be given. But she wanted _the truth._

“They knew each other as young children. Her father was very close to Theodore. They were, hunting partners. Some might consider them very close acquaintances, perhaps even best friends. Her parents, Selina and Colin. Very pleasant, genial people. They raised their girls well, great breeding, you know, ensures a good lineage.” She began. Elizabeth wondered if Ophelia meant t make them all sound like they were breeding pedigree hounds, and not families.

“… Though they all seemed good people, really. I suppose. Their youngest, Anabelle, she never really stood out from the shadow of her sisters you know. She was a small, mousy little slip of a girl. Always seen, never heard. Do you know her sister Flora is a prodigy on the harp? And, her second eldest, Malinda, is an operatic singer, tours all over Europe. Known in every country, apparently. _AND,_ their eldest is the crowning glory. Eleanor Hastings. She recently wed the Earl of Leermonth, you know?” She nodded wisely. “Lives in him in his mansion up in Cumbria, I think it is. Pity really. Who wants to live in _Cumbria?"_ She digressed. 

“Anyway, Anabelle, _well_ , she lived her life _behind_ other people’s accomplishments. Then, the one boy she finds pays attention to her because of her father’s acquaintance with our family, she latched onto. Constantly bombarded him with letters, and dates to go on walks, to tea, or to the opera. She _plagued_ the boy practically night and day as they grew into their adolescence. But, her parents saw the dangers of her _over-eagerness,_ and what she might be _labelled_ as because of it.

They sent her miles away to an Uncle in Kent to complete her education, Thomas underwent becoming the Dukes son and _that was that._ They didn’t see each other again until years afterward. I always thought Thomas was the only person to have shown her kindness, she was virtually _ignored_ by her family. But, he _always_ showed her geniality. Perhaps that was his _gravest_ mistake. Now that little _twerp_ has fluttered her way into this family and disturbed it from _within_. And all at that _Hag’s_ doing.”

She growled, she nearly _spat_ out her reference to Caroline. As if it made the foulest taste in her mouth.

Elizabeth looked across to Edith.

“So, Caroline, exploited my uncles kindness, and Anabelle saw _her_ opportunity…” Edith mumbled.

“I _pity her.”_

Elizabeth spoke, seeing that at the looks she was shot from her Great Aunt, and her Niece, that hers indeed, was an unpopular opinion in the room.

“For a girl to be so ignored, and _unloved_ by her own family. To find solace in a friendship – which they then deny her for fear of her reputation. To have that _ripped_ away from her, to be reunited with that man several years later. The only way she can seek attention is via scandal…”

Elizabeth shook her head, it was a thing to be saddened over, no matter the circumstances that surrounded them now.

“Lord help me, but I _pity_ any such girl who finds her beloved attention from the _scandal_ of ruining a happy marriage union merely for _attention_.” Elizabeth told them.

“Her Mother and Father are, of course, _furious_.” Ophelia told.

“No wonder…” Edith sarrced bitterly.

“I overheard them escorting the young miss sharply from the party not long after the incident, ushering her home quicker than a scalded dog. The silly gel had the biggest – vilest - _smile_ on her face. As if one could smile after such a deed. It was almost as if she was _proud_ of her actions. Not able to hear _any_ of her parent’s voiced displeasure of what she had done.” Ophelia informed them.

Elizabeth’s knuckles curled tight into a fist. She had to try hard, looking into her lap, to not let any tears prick annoyingly at her eyes.

“She could do us all an immense favour and pick on someone _else’s_ husband next time she decides she wants to become the biggest source of gossip and the most inappropriate, determined _flirt_ in all of Derbyshire _.”_

Elizabeth barked, hating how her voice wobbled as she spoke. She looked to her toes, and tried her best to swallow her grief, glancing briefly at her belly, thinking sadly on the life that was growing within. It all felt tainted to her now. She was the expectant, cuckolded wife. Nothing more. And her husband whom she loved more dearly than all the treasures and comforts on earth, was considering – questioning – whether or not he had wed her under hasty and sightless sentiment. The mere thought of his doubt in them absolutely _killed_ her with crippling, heart breaking, agony.

“I’ll give it to the Dowager. She chose her pawn with _deliberate_ effect and intent.” Ophelia foretold.

“I’d almost marvel at her strategy too. If she hadn’t used it to skilfully disrupt my marriage.” Elizabeth sighs miserably. “Hats off to the master.” She adds glumly

“ _Don’t tell_ me you’re letting _her win_ , Mrs K. _DO not_ you dare sit there and declare to me that there’ll be no retaliation from _you…_ ” Ophelia seethed, leaning forward as she spoke looking dangerous to Elizabeth’s eye. Her beady black eyes unnerving her relative. Anyone would shrink under such a gaze.

The Duchesses mouth gaped. Speechless. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth was both stumped, and terrified of what Ophelia thought of her in that moment.

“I-“Elizabeth began, but as a matter of fact, she was unsure of just _exactly_ where to begin.

“Now _you listen_ , to me.”

Ophelia ordered in a voice that was no less than lethal.

“And you listen _sharp._ For I shall not repeat myself.”

She started. Glowering at Elizabeth in perfect Queen’s English in her prim, enunciated tone.

“Caroline is no more entitled than _a mongrel_ in the street gutters Elizabeth. And yet she has strolled her way into our lives and commandeered it so that _every_ situation outcome will benefit her foul schemes all because her marriage gives her airs and graces. And you listen to me Elizabeth. _You are_ a Kenworthy now. _By blood. My marriage_. You have our lineage growing in _those pretty bones_ of yours. You carry the _future heir of Chatsworth **.**_ And In all my years I have never known another girl with a greater modicum of sense, independence, and feistiness about her – save for myself of course. Heed me. ** _DO not let_** that vile old crone rob you of one of the most passionate, close knit marriages I have _ever had_ the privilege to be witness too. _Stand your ground, Kenworthy_. Or you will answer _to me_ , and you will most certainly _not want_ to face my displeasure _, trust me_ on that biased count. The Duke of Cranford did once, he stood up to me, now the poor twit is infirm, and has developed a serious stammer and a twitch. He flinches when I pass him by at balls. Just to give you _a scope_ of my influence, and what would happen should I find myself _displeased…_ ”

She huffs, struggling her old bones to come to a stand. Deciding that she had imparted enough wisdom and sense upon the room for one day.

Elizabeth looked up at the hunched, elderly frame as her gloved hand skimmed to cup Elizabeth’s cheek as she got close. Her sharp words hitting Elizabeth with all the finesse like the blows of an axe. The hand clasping her cheek was cool sensation of the coldness of the rings, and the gentle brush of Ophelia’s slippery velvet gloves stroking her skin. Both the soothe of the velvet, and the shock of the cold metal making Elizabeth shiver inwardly.

“Don’t let her bully you, Elizabeth. You’re far too good, not to mention strong, and beautiful, for her to reduce you to nothing more than a cuckolded spouse. I know you are in an extraordinary amount of pain. I know it. I know it hurts. Do not try and deny it, I can see it in your eyes. _I know how much it hurts,_ my dear. I do.  But I _know_ my great great Nephew, and trust me, he loves you more potently than _all_ the stars in the heavens. So _don’t_ let her best you. Play her at her own dirty, underhanded, sordid little game, dear.” Ophelia winked.

"And do me the greatest of personal favour's? Oust that foul strumpet so she hasn't a leg to stand on." She grinned. 

She let her hand grip Elizabeth’s shoulder and she looked down proudly on the woman, who had tears gleaming in the corner of her almond shaped, fine blue eyes.

“I know you won’t rest til you’ve rectified this matter, Elizabeth. You’ve too much pride to let her take advantage of your family. Challenge her. You have a spirit that rises above all else. I know you will, because I recognise the same traits in you as someone else I am on _very_ intimate terms with.” Ophelia promised.

“ _Who?”_ Elizabeth found herself asking.

Ophelia grinned like a sly old fox. Her eyes twinkled in that old, wise way that old eyes do.

“ _Me_.” She winked again before she began to totter off.

Elizabeth smiled, watching the elderly woman plod away, out of the study and out of sight. Clearly she wanted to come and vent to the only people in the house whom she knew had a modicum of sense. Her words had rung true. The situation hurt worse, and more potently than anything she had ever known. But she felt a rousing of her old spirit at Ophelia’s instructions – and not just merely due to the threats she issued – this was _her_ family, _her_ house, her home. And was she not about to let that foul old hag think that she had any chance of stomping all over everyone. _No._ she was made of too sterner mettle to sit meek and obedient. That wasn’t her type. She had to stand her ground to prove she was no ornamental miss. She grit her teeth. Feeling slightly stronger for Ophelia’s much needed frankness. It still hurt, _god, did it still hurt_. But she put that aside for now.

“As much as I never wish to admit it, Ophelia makes a _very_ good point…” Edith smiles meekly.

Elizabeth smiles, sweeping away her tears before they spilled over her fine, fragile and pale cheekbones.

“She _does_ , doesn’t _she?”_ She admitted.“Though I would never say that _aloud_ to her. She’d plague me with it til the day I’m in a _wooden box.”_ Elizabeth assures.

Edith chuckled. And though it felt foreign to her, so did Elizabeth. They chuckled til their sides hurt.

“Shall I ring for some tea, I don’t know about you but I feel a little peckish…” Elizabeth began, one hand on her belly as she leaned forwards, reaching for the small bell on the table to summon one of the housemaids and ask kindly for a tray of tea for two, with as many treats as Ethel could spare. They both needed a bit of cheering.

Edith didn’t answer her. Elizabeth saw that she had gone rigid. Completely stock still, with her head twisted round, looking outwards across the open door into the hallway. The Duchess frowned.

“Edith? What is it?” She enquired kindly. Seeing her niece so transfixed by something.

And that was when she heard it too, A piano piece, it softly tinkled through the house. She was puzzled, the only person in this house who could play the piano – skilfully – was….. No. It couldn’t be. Iris hadn’t touched an instrument since John’s death. She remembered vividly, Edith had told her she never even went into her music room now. It was locked. No one ever went in it. Iris hadn’t been in there since the funeral. And it couldn’t – it simply couldn’t – be any of her relatives who could play the piano so finely. The last time Felicity had decided she would ‘try the piano’ her poor father had to stick his ears with cotton in order to sit through the entire performance. He stated he could hear whichever ill-fated composer had written it banging on the lid of his coffin as he rolled in his grave trying to get out at such a performance as this. Shortly after, Felicity informed them after her serenade that she was actually playing three blind mice. She was banned from the piano after that incident. The neighbours both sides had complained of Aristotle’s howling all throughout the piece. And another instrument was struck off Felicity’s ‘accomplished young ladies’ list.

She looked back to Edith, who span round to Elizabeth with a sudden cry, her eyes wide.

“My mother…” Edith gasped, springing from her seat like a shot, the book on her lap tumbling to the floor, uncared for Edith bolted from the room, searching for the source of the noise.

Elizabeth got quickly to her feet, and followed after Edith’s quick pace. As her niece practically flew through the hallways making a beeline for the music room. Hearing the delightful piano sonata grow louder and louder as they both scampered along.

And then Elizabeth watched Edith come to a slow stop, peering cautiously forwards. She had never before seen such a look of recollection on her face. She was as still as a marble statue. Her eyes transfixed on the ajar door of the music room before her, she kept back just far enough so as not to be seen, but just enough to allow her a sight of the people within the room, where the music was originating from. Though she was utterly still. Elizabeth could not mistake the nearly silent sentence that spoke in a rush from Edith’s lips as a hush.

“That was my father’s favourite song…” She spoke in disbelief.

And then Elizabeth saw the most beautiful thing happen. She saw Edith smile the widest smile she had ever seen, tears spilling down over her cheeks, dripping onto her white lace chest as more followed. Elizabeth put her arm around the girl, drying her tears with her hands. Edith barely even flinched. She couldn’t. She was too transfixed by the song to notice.

Elizabeth herself caught a peek of what was happening inside the room. And her heart delighted on finding The Reverend Hugh sat by Iris’s side, he too enchanted by watching, and listening to her play. He didn’t take his eyes off the woman he was next to. She smiled, she too appreciating Beethoven Moonlight Sonata in all its fine glory, played by Iris’s skilled hands. The crescendo came, in all its dips and falls, and then it gently slowed to a close, and they watched the pair speak kindly to one another. Their word too soft and loving to be overheard, but one minute they watched Iris flinch in nervousness, but that didn’t deter The Reverend. He captured Iris’s face gently in his hands, and leaned forwards to give Iris a lingering passionate kiss.

Elizabeth and Edith shared a wide grin at each other for seeing that. Feeling like sordid witnesses on Iris and Hugh’s intimate moment together. But the music had meant something for Edith too. They watched, overjoyed as the budding couple before them held hands, and relaxed into each other’s embrace, sat side by side on the piano stool. Looking the perfect picture of enraptured harmony.

 _“Finally_ …” Edith hisses to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth smiled back. She hated how things were with her and Thomas at present, but she was beyond pleased to know there was a romance blossoming in this house that went untouched, and was safe from Caroline’s toxic clutches. And she was twice as glad that it was Hugh and Iris who were happy. They both deserved it more than anyone else she could think of. Mother-in-law be damned.

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iris was in her day - not surprisingly - a wallflower. One night. She was standing, alone, on the fringes of a Derbyshire ballroom. Watching everyone else having a fine time, and feeling much too shy, as a debutante of 16 to join or fit In anywhere comfortably. Her father discussing business with fellow lords and friends. Her brother engaging a young shy lady to dance. And her mother cackling away in the matrons corner with her society ladies. She was lonely, quiet, and feeling oppressed and belittled under her mothers omnipotent, all seeing, domineering shadow. Commanding how she dressed, walked, ate and spoke. That was, until a young man, who was just as shy himself, was unable to resist her beauty looking so withdrawn. So, he approached her. And asked if she was engaged for the next dance. That young man, was Johnathan Nathaniel Thatcher. The Innkeepers son. Iris smiled, and accepted his invitation. He smiled back. And they were married the following June.


	94. Four Legged Friends, Truthful Word's, and Liars...

 

 

In actual fact, he didn’t go to his study to drown his insides in scotch. _Though lord, how he wanted too._ But, he doesn’t.

Instead, he finds his feet and his head conspire to take him to a completely separate part of the house. In fact, before he knows it, he finds himself trekking across the cobblestoned yard, round past the farm, and on into Chatsworth’s stables. Angus and Milton were nowhere to be found, out lending their strong arms to the fields, he expects. After all, Chatsworth was still a working farm. He levers open the sliding stable door, and shuts it behind him after he enters. His muscles straining to pull the heavy solid oak door shut. Enclosing himself in the long narrow barn - save for several of the occupants who lived in there of course. The long row of stables was the reason the room smelt of dust, ancient wood, and the earthy aroma of fresh hay. The sunlight that filtered through added a strong amount of natural warmth to the barn. Specs of dust swam merrily in the cheery beam of light that hit the wall opposite the row of stable doors.

He could see Max’s stall all the way far down the end. A few feet stamped, and pounded the hay strewn cobbled floor at his entering and disturbing them all. He reached for the pale strung up on the wall nearby, and strode over to the tall closest to him. Where a large and midnight black Friesian stallion was huffing at him. Thomas smiled softly as he stroked the horse’s nose, allowing him to bury his long snout in the pale and snack on what inviting grain and oats lay at the bottom.

“Hello Carrick. You _stubborn_ old thing... Long-time, no see, _hey?”_

He smiled, soothingly rubbing Carrick’s velveteen forehead. Withdrawing the bucket watching the horses jaw swerve as he enjoyed the treat he’d been fed. He hadn’t seen Carrick since before he left for London. He always rode Max out and about when at home. Carrick was a powerfully strong horse, in both body and temperament. A cunning old devil. Deceptive too, he was all sweetness when being saddled, but had thrown almost _everyone_ who’d sat on him. He was a stubborn old animal. Much preferring being out in the fields pulling carts, as opposed to pulling the carriage or riding about the countryside. Carrick was the devil incarnate, complete with a flicking tail and a devious sense of humour. It was little wonder the stable hands had called him a name, which in the old Scottish tongue, meant ‘ _Rocky_ ,’

Up next for some oats was Cleo, a shimmering white Andalusian. Sweetest mare if ever there was one. Then a trusty old shire, as reliable as time itself, Lester, who was speckled in varying shades of grey. Then, Chatsworth’s four working horses, all toffee brown Arabians, with silky black manes and tails, all with white socks up past their fetlocks, so it was hard to tell them apart. Brutis, Fabio, Patch and Bertie.

Then, last but not least on the end was his own horse, who Thomas saw as he shook his mane, flicking it side to side, impatient to see his master. Of course, the silky ivory Orlov Trotter that was his own personal stallion, Max. Whom he’d had since he was a boy. He was getting on a fair bit now, he couldn’t do some of the straight out gallops he could do in his younger years, but he got around with a lot of agility for a horse his twelve years of age. Max was the quickest horse he’d ever ridden, thanks to his breed. He was bred to be a fast stallion, and he didn’t _ever_ disappoint.

Max was glad to see him, or maybe just for the pale of oats he was holding. But either way, it made him smile. Brought a smidgeon of light to his otherwise _miserable_ day.

He unlatched the stable door and greeted his horse, who snuffled his hair in the fond way he always did. Thomas smiled wider at the feeling of Max’s silky nostrils ruffling his hair with his hot fragrant snort. To which he reached round and patted his neck. Rubbing across his soft, solid shoulder. Tracing his hand along the arc of his steady, sturdy spine, feeling the muscles and the power in his back.

He then crossed back over to the wall opposite, where all the tacking equipment was hung on the walls. He grabbed a small, oval shaped, wooden brush with a strap, slid it onto his hand, and began to brush along Max’s sides and his back. Speaking gently to him all the while as he did. As if he were addressing an old friend.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you _sooner.”_ He apologised.

“Been _rather_ busy as it turns out…”

He spoke angrily, sweeping the brush across Max, who didn’t seem to mind his flanks being so vigorously massaged.

“Been busy trying to rescue my… _once loving_ … marriage from being dashed on the rocks. Which as it turns out, was an _imprudent_ use of my time.” He explained lowly.

“But _to no avail_.”

He spoke, stopping in his task for a moment, seeing Max lifted his big white nose and looked directly at him. The animal’s dark eyes glinted. And part of Thomas – _the insane part perhaps_ – knew the horse could _understand_ how he felt, and what he was saying.

“Anabelle Hastings was the _final_ nail in the coffin in case you were _wondering_...” Thomas told him glumly.

“She _cornered_ me on that terrace and Elizabeth saw her throw herself at me. _God_ , for as long as I live, Max, I’ll _never_ be free to forget the look on her face when she saw. The _sheer bloody_ agony in her eyes. _Broke my heart_ , you know.”

Max snorted.

“ _Exactly.”_ Thomas answered.

Perfectly willing to believe Max could understand his every word. He carried on brushing along once again. Refocusing from his misery back onto the task in hand.

“Though I can’t quite _believe_ she did it totally _unaided_. I saw my mother whispering _animatedly_ to her before I went out there to look for Elizabeth. I can’t _quite_ believe what followed was no _mere coincidence._ ” Thomas seethed.

“You know I wouldn’t _be at all surprised_ if she threw that _ruddy_ ball in order to plan on me and Elizabeth being parted, and throwing an infatuated girl in my direction to come between us. If there’s nothing my mother loves more than money, and the comfort of riches, it’s _a scandal.”_ He explained.

Max whinnied.

“ _I know_ it’s despicable…” He replied.

“ _But_ , _that is_ my mother for you.”

He told. Rounding Max to get to the other side of him.

“And now. My wife and I are not speaking. And I said I wanted to admire separate bedrooms. But nothing could be _further_ from the truth. She just got under my skin, dismissing what happened with one blow of her tongue. All I was trying to do was tell her _stubborn_ head that…”

He cut himself off when he realised he was ranting at a million miles a second.

He brushed twice. In silence.

“In truth _. I miss her_ , Max. I. Really. Miss _her._ ”

He explained. Max gave a rumbling but quiet snort as his reply.

“And now scandal that I cuckolded her will have spread from lands’ end to the Orkney’s, _no doubt_. If every _motor-mouthed_ harpy of my mother’s acquaintance was in attendance last night. The word will be _rife_ everywhere now. In one day she’s managed to turn me from a devoted husband and a father-to-be, into a lecherous sod of a man, who takes on a mistress. The _worst_ sort of man, if you ask me…” The Duke told his faithful steed.

Max shook his head and stamped his feet.

“There’s no need to be _so_ _aggressive_ about it. I doubt you’ll ever be in my mother’s company to give her a piece of your mind... She famously  _doesn't_ favour the stables.” Thomas suggests.

But that was when he heard the stable doors being pulled open from the other end, and then dainty heeled feet clopped onto the cobbles by the entrance.

Max snorted again, becoming all the more uneasy. Protesting and shuffling back, and forth. Thomas continued to pat his neck and rub his ears, trying to calm him. He knew how, usually a sugar cube would do the trick.

“Hey, _hey_ ….. _Shhhh_. _It's alright boy._ ” Thomas crooned, rubbing soothing circles on the animals back as he tossed his mane. Growing more restless.

“ _Thomas?”_

Came a shrill and disgusted cry from halfway down the narrow barn. He hated to think my why mother was in here, calling after him. He half hoped she’d trodden in some inelegant muck of the horse kind. He had no wish to be near her company right now. She hated horses and anything to do with riding, the closest she came to horses was going into town a carriage. She complained and always retained that they were frightful, smelly beasts who weren’t to be put up with unless they served some function to the gentry.

Thomas nodded in understanding as to why Max was suddenly so agitated.

“ _Chilling_ wind blew through you, _did it?”_ Thomas asked in a hushed voice directly to Max.

“ _Thomas?_ Are you in here? _Who_ the _devil_ are you talking too?” She demanded in her usual shriek.

Thomas ignored her.

“Brace yourself, old chap. Something _wicked_ this way comes.” He warns with a wink. And he could’ve sworn Max _winked_ back.

“ _Urgh_. It smells _frightful_ in here…”

Came a whiny complaint. The footsteps getting closer to his stall. Tottering gingerly over the bumps and the uneven surface of the stable floor.

“Do you think she’s _twigged_ it is a _stable_?” Thomas asked his horse. “Maybe the _tack_ and the live _animals_ will clue her in.” He adds.

“Why on earth are you in this _awful place_? I need to speak with you. _Urgently._ ” She demanded.

Thomas rolled his eyes, and looked to Max, who gave a snort in agreement.

“Double, double, _toil_ and trouble, fire _burn_ and cauldron _bubble…_ ”

Thomas hummed lowly to Max under his breath. Brushing away on Max’s coat, trying to calm him. Finishing his little comment just in time to see his mother round the stall he stood in. Her face a picture of disdain and disgust. Her nose wrinkled up in disregard. As if she’d tasted sour milk in her tea. Looking as if touching any surface would infect her with something disastrous.

“You know. I _always thought_ horses could sense unpleasantness when it drew near them. Glad to know I was _right_.”

He commented. Not facing her. But putting his back to her and walking around Max to get to his other side. Patting his solid flank as he went.

Caroline glowered at his clever comment. But ultimately decided to ignore it.

 “Why _on earth_ are you in this _shoddy old barn_ like _an animal?_ Thomas?” She asks with a scolding tone.

“ _For one_ , I don’t think Max would appreciate you calling his home, shoddy. _And second_ , I didn’t desire _any_ company. Especially not _yours_.”

Thomas finished tersely. His patience for her not infinite – matter of fact it was _barely filtered into existence_ when it came to _her._

He was delighted to see how Caroline retreated at the sight of Max stamping his feet, and snorting in an aggressive manner towards her. He turned his best scathing glare toward her too. Slightly amused at Max’s reaction to her. Quite right for him to be uneasy around such foul creatures as she.

 _“Look_ …”

She began nervously, clearly poised and about to explain as the situation last night.

“I don’t wish to hear whatever _sordid excuse_ is about to claw its way out of your mouth under the _guise_ of innocence.”

Thomas finished sharply for her. His temper _barely_ restrained.

Caroline blinked.

“I don’t understand.” She blinked affably.

“ _Oh_ , I think you _bloody_ well do.” He snapped.

“I’m not here to talk about _whatever_ incident happened last night between you and Elizabeth.” She dismissed evenly.

“I should _think not_. Then again. I did see you talking _most spiritedly_ to Anabelle not moments before _she launched_ herself at me on the terrace. And I _know you_ far better than I’d like to admit to know that such a thing is a trifling little, _perfect coincidence_.” He bit out savagely.

Caroline swallowed, averting her eyes, before she met his eye line once more.

“I need to talk to you, about another _urgent_ matter.” She insisted.

Thomas put his back to her once more. Effectively ignoring her in the hopes she would shut up, but it seemed to spur her on.

“It’s about Iris.” She confessed in a sad tone.

Thomas turned so sharply to face her, it made her flinch slightly.

“What _about her?”_

He demanded in a tone that was 100% the tone of a man of power, it was a strict, intimidating voice that _knew_ it commanded a Dukedom.

“I fear she keeps poor company. I know... I..ur...know she clearly has deep… _feelings_ , for this Reverend… _um._. _whosis_. But I know from a reliable source, that he _is not_ the devout godly man he outwardly pretends to be.”

Thomas frowned at her.

 _“What?”_ He got out in utter confusion.

“Iris should not keep company with him.” She warned.

“The Reverend is a good man.” Thomas held out.

“Even bad men can play the hero, Thomas.” She informed him lowly.

“Why should I believe _a word_ you say?” Thomas asked her honestly.

“That man, is a _liar_.” She snarled in disdain.

“I assume you’ve proof to back your claim. Not just your gossiping society matrons wildly _tossing_ rumours about...” He began.

Caroline reached for her pocket, and drew out a small square of paper. Yellowed, and old. Cracked and curled at the edge. It looked like it had been clipped out of a newspaper, the paper was thin and wrinkled. But she held it out for him to see.

He took it. And read it.

Then he met his mother’s cold eyes.

“I cannot believe a man of the cloth would deceive me.” Thomas spoke softly.

Caroline shrugged.

“There’s more.” She stated gravely.

Thomas watched as she handed him a handwritten letter, written by a woman, the intended recipient was not named. But the letter was clear enough in what it meant to convey. The letter was dated many years previous. 1855, three years ago, after the war.

“Who wrote this?” He asked.

“His recently departed wife.” She informed.

“And if a wife is able to write to her companion about her husband behaving in _such_ a way as _that_ , doesn’t that tell you just, _exactly_ , what sort of _man_ he is.” She said stiffly.

Thomas met her eyes, feeling ashamed.

It said _perfectly well_ what sort of man he was.

And it wasn’t _at all_ _pleasant._

 

_~_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judith should like to marry a king one day. She isn't sure which one. She isn't picky. But not one that lives in a palace too far away... She'd like to be able to visit when she has the time to spare from her royal duties.


	95. Second Loves Lost, Deceit, and Bitter Marriages...

 

~ Two Day’s Later ~

 

 

 _He hadn’t wanted to show her,_ he had said.

He had also said that; ‘ _If it was any consolation, that Caroline probably was mistaken_.’

It was probably wrong, after all, it did come from their fork tongued mother. It was probably an evil concoction intended to meddle in things she had better keep her nose out of, he had also said, _‘It could be another Reverend Everett. Who knows? It could be a common name down in Hampshire’_ as if that was supposed to give her some meagre shred of comfort to cling blindly onto.

But all it did was slowly, surely and gently _torture her._

She sat slumped at her writing desk, having just been given to shreds of paper from her brother. Two pieces of paper, how stupid was it that those two silly little things had just brought her happiness crumbling down around her. Dissolving it away to nothing, like smoke, it disappeared, escaping off into the room as If it had never been. The first speck of sunshine she’d found in four dark years, and now it was being thrown into the darkness once more. It shouldn’t be _right_ that an old newspaper clipping from a gossip column and a letter could destroy something so real, and valuable. But nonetheless, _it had_.

Her eyes swept in front of her once more. She knew what the words read. She had read it through four times. Over and over her frenzied eyes had scanned the page, the words swimming in her sight. Shimmering through her tears.

_‘_ _It was reported to this author’s very ears, that resident Reverend to St. Lawrence Chapel, a one Hugh Everett was dismissed from his charge as a man of the cloth, due to his unsightly habits that cost him his position. It is reported that the man had racked up a severe amount of money in gambling, whoring and drinking debts in and around Suffolk. After which it follows that the man was reported to have brawled in a most uncivilised manner, starting a fight with soldiers from the local regiment, which ended with the man, kicking and screaming blue murder, being locked up by the local police for most foul disturbance of the peace.’_

She couldn’t _bare it._ Hugh had _lied_ to her. He had lied to _everyone_ , he had not been honest about the reasons surrounding the resignation of his previous parish. Iris knew after he left Hampshire, his home, after the war, he had travelled to Suffolk to a Vicarage for two years, and then onto Derbyshire. The second letter did nothing whatsoever to ease her worries about the man she was sure she loved more dearly than _her very life_ itself. She couldn’t help it, she re-read the letter again too.

_My Dearest Perce,_

_I fear I haven’t much time to write, for if he finds me contacting you, I daren’t think what I’d be in for as a consequence. So time is not on my side, so what I’ll have to say, I’ll say it quickly. I miss you, most ardently, I cannot convey how much it has pained me not to see your kind face every day._

_Please allow me to admit to you, that I have made the foulest mistake of the bitterest kind. I dismissed all good favour, a comfortable home, decent society and all my friends and family, for what I thought was the love of my life. But I fear his true nature is showing through the gentleman’s façade that was at the first, so endearing and enchanting to me. He is not a good man. As you so told, and warned me. And whilst I foolishly dismissed it then, I know it to be of the utmost truth. The truth being that he harms me, he hurts me in the most foul and intimate of ways, then somehow commandeers the situation to make it out to be all my own fault. All my own doing. Furthermore he is not loyal to me like you were. I know for a fact he is betraying me with others, many others. He outwardly admitted, gloating, as to that sad fact. He is unfaithful, harmful, and most days, he is too gone on drink to stand, or even speak. Due to his habits, we find ourselves living in squalid conditions in Bethnal Green, where life is noisy, and cramped and rife with sickness and smog, him and me barely scraping together enough money to get by._

_I miss the rolling hills, and the sweet country air. It’s where I go back to in my dreams Perce. When I lay my head down on the pillow at night, I shut my eyes, and I imagine being back there, with you in Hampshire. On the Estate. I always wake with a start and a thumping heart thinking that I’m back there beside you, but, woefully, I never am. And I go miserably back to my disappointing life. Our situation here is a miserable one if ever I knew it. I miss my old life with you. The days of laughter, joy, tenderness, and comfort. To this day I cannot reflect on them without weeping dreadful tears of sorrow. I weep a lot these days, I find. And I detest it._

_This letter could not be more prudent, for I fear that my consumption had worsened. I do not myself know how many days I have left. But I cannot pretend they are not few. And I have but one regret. I openly declare to you now, that I ran off and married the wrong man. His undying devotion to loving me and only me, I thought meant more than every previous sentiment I had been gifted in my life. But I was wrong. I_ was wrong _Perce. I was so very, horribly, awfully wrong._

_I gave my love to the wrong man, and now I know I will die regretting it. Know that I love you with all my heart, Perce._

_All the love I knowingly possess_

_Your Catherine_

 

Iris tore her eyes away again. No matter what she did, keep reading it, or choose to ignore it, it would make little difference. The words would still appear the same.

And the fact that the man she loved had lied most hideously to her didn’t change either. Though she hoped it would

Thomas hadn’t left the room. He couldn’t bear too. He knew he had to tell Iris the truth. He couldn’t stand to see his Irie hurt again just when she seemed to regain her smile. But he was left with little choice. He knew she wrote her letters of a morning, in the blue salon. He exposed these letters onto her with the heaviest heart. He didn’t wish to see her hurt and pained but he stood her in _too_ much regard to let her stumble across the news, or heaven forfend, let his dragon of a mother tell her – most likely with a horrible smirk on those lips of hers that she had turned out to be right about warning Thomas he was not to be trusted as a devoted Reverend.

He could barely believe that the genial man had deceived him so greatly. Clearly, Hugh Everett’s past was strewn with days where sermon writing was not a pastime that appeared so palatable to him as it did now. The letter spoke of the _worst_ habits of a man, and the gossip column kindly confirmed it. Whoring, Gambling, and drunken bouts and brawls. Alongside debt, and destitution. How could such a man appear deceptively to them as a dedicated man of religious repute?

 _Clearly, he was a very skilled liar_ , Thomas thought to himself.

“Are you alright, Iris?”

Thomas asked in a hush. He had placed himself to lean against the armchair closest to the large writing desk, not taking his eyes off his sister, shrunken, pale and so very small. Sat at her desk, with her heart more broken than she can every remember it being. It sunk low, grey and dejected in her chest. Spiked with the humiliation and shock of the nature of such a discovery.

“I’m _fine_.”

Her voice broke as she spoke, indicating the exact opposite.

“Was I _wrong_ to show you?”

He asks, needing to see if he had done the right thing by her. He needed to know. Because then, maybe the gut gnawing guilt would go away.

“What will happen _now?_ ”

She asked in an impossibly small voice. She didn’t turn to face him, and she sounded terrified by the answer.

Thomas swallowed. His sombre eyes fixed solely on her white back. She had worn the finest of her ivory lace gowns today. The one she looked lovely in. One of her favourites. He hated having to impart such misery onto her day. She had probably leapt out of bed smiling today. She spent all morning sat in the orangery, beaming away with Edith as they read their respective novels. She had laughed when Judith came tottering out and helped her tend to her beloved rose gardens earlier. A vase of such sat atop her desk. They were tainted to her now. Their sickly fragrance seeping into the room usually made her smile. Now, she’d doubt if she’d ever _smile_ again.

“ _Well…”_

Thomas spoke, swallowing and wetting his lips. Moistening his parched throat.

“If what I read _is true._ Then… I have to write a letter to the archbishop, and… Iris. I’m afraid if _it is true,_ I must dismiss Hugh from his living…” He spoke softly.

Thomas was sure he both saw and heard her choke back a sob. He flinched to go and embrace her. Just to hold her, reassure her that everything would be alright. But he _knew_ it wouldn’t be.

“Mother wants me to marry the Earl of Audley, you know.”

She adds. Still not looking at him. But rather out of the window, out across the rose gardens she had been so merry in just hours earlier. That seemed years ago, now.

“I _know_...” Thomas replied lowly.

“Do you think it would be wise to wed him? He atleast has always been _totally honest_ with me.”

She said. Not nastily. Iris Kenworthy didn’t _ever_ have it in her to be nasty. She was just stating a mere fact.

 _“I-“_ He started. “I can’t tell you _who you_ should wed Iris.” He reveals. “ _Only you_ can decide to whom you should be bound in holy matrimony.” He tells her.

She doesn’t say anything for a minute.

“If there’s _any spec_ of wisdom I’ve learned from my mother, it’s that I need to be _practical_ about my marriage choice.” She insists, swallowing the thick grief that lay sluggish in her throat.

“Practicality _doesn’t have_ to come into it…” Thomas pointed out.

He watched as Iris stand, and face him, for the first time in their conversation.

“Not for _you perhaps_ , Thomas, you  were an eligible, Middle Ages bachelor, a Duke about town. But you forget that _I_ am a widowed war spinster, with two children, and no prospects, and I _do not_ have youth or choice on my side. Practicality is _my only_ option in things such as this. If you’ve no objection, I will accept, with all possible grace and haste, The Earl of Audley’s proposal of marriage.”

She speaks, her voice fighting to stay even. Not meeting his eyes. But looking at her feet, not stopping the building tears in her eyes that looked like stormy clouds in a troubled sky.

Thomas was speechless now. He did not like Audley at all, _that much_ was certain. But now the truth had come to light about Hugh, of who they had all been _so_ hopeful, of what he was really like. Iris was settling for the next best suitor. Audley was certainly richer than Everett, and Iris would have a higher rank in society as a Countess.

 _But_ , that tiny little word was floating at the back of his mouth… _But._

 _“But,_ would you _be happy, Iris?”_ He asks.

“That shouldn’t matter. I _cannot_ afford to be unreasonably selective Thomas. I will be giving my girls a roof over their heads, a title, money and the prospect of a decent upbringing and education. Romance is a convenient indulgence, but it is _not a_ _necessity.”_ She insisted.

“I’m _not_ a romantic, Thomas.” She added.

The Duke of Chatsworth tilted his head sadly.

“Iris. I’ve known you now for thirty one years, and you _are_ , and _will always_ be the _most romantic_ person _I know._ ” He pressed. Seeing what was happening to her at that very moment.

It was the same thing that had happened when she lost John. She was there, in body, but her spirit the very life in her eyes, and her laugh, _were gone._ Like a flickering candle, lost in a dark room, quickly extinguishing into grey nothingness, and then pure darkness. He knew _right then_ at that very second, her head had lost the path to her heart. Now it was locked away _deep_ so no one else could get in, and hurt it again.  She was turning into an echo of her former self. She now stood, solid, but just _as a shadow_ of his Iris. The Iris he knew and loved, so dearly.

He watched a tear escape both her blustery grey eyes. Silver in the light, storm clouds were gathering in her orbs and it was raining down her cheeks.

“What _good_ has romance _ever done me?_ It has been in no _way faithful_ to me, brother.” She cried.

“ _Look at me_ , _alone_ , a spinster, on the shelf, _forgotten_ after John died, still living off my dowry in my middle age. There’s _no more_ chances for me to find love, so I may as well use _that_ to my advantage and secure a decent future for my family…” She promises.

He opened his mouth to protest, but they were disturbed by a knock at the salon door. And a housemaid’s white capped head poked round the frame, seeing the Duke and Lady Iris within.

“Pardon me interrupting, Ma’am. Your Lordship. But The Reverend’s come to call, Milady.” She offered in a hushed tone.

Iris nodded her thanks, and with a quiet click of the door back in the latch. Brother and Sister were alone once more.

She turned and gathered the clippings on the desk. She laid them gently into her hands, as though they hadn’t just been the source of all her pain. And then, she stood and faced Thomas once more. Looking him directly in the eyes, her voice wavering though tears as she spoke

“If you’ll _excuse me_. I have to go and sever _all acquaintance_ with the Reverend now.” She insisted with a firm look in her eyes.

Thomas didn’t say a thing. _He couldn’t._ He had just broken her heart, and now she had to go and break Hugh’s.

“ _I’m sorry,_ Iris.” He spoke in a whisper, looking to the floor as she passed him.

She paused, turning as she got to the door.

“Not _nearly_ as sorry as I am. _Believe me_.”

She tells him honestly, before she disappears round the door. Her voice straining and her heart crushing with every word.

 

~

 

He had his back to her, awaiting her in the grand foyer. Usually, they would show him to a parlour to take tea together, but today was different. A housemaid had told him that Iris would come and greet him in person. Which he thought rather odd, and also, she had been a little cold towards him. He had asked if she was having a pleasant afternoon and was met with a glower that could have formed ice.

He was just admiring a flawless Millais artwork on the wall, when he finally heard foot falls grow closer, echoing across the massive hallway to where he stood.

He turned and saw Iris heading towards him, but as soon as he did, his face fell. She was crying.

“Iris _whatever’s_ the _matter?”_ He asked kindly, his hand instantly went into his overcoat, and retrieved his handkerchief for her. He passed the snowy white square to her, but she rebuffed his hand as he attempted to pass it across. 

She wet her lips, finally working up the strength to meet his eyes. Upon seeing the way those wonderful seafoam eyes strained down at her with worry, her heart _broke all over again._

He watched with confusion as she took a step back from him, flinching away. Worry was ebbing into him now, on swift wings.

“There is nothing the matter with me, I am perfectly _well._ All things considered. I am… merely a little _, disappointed_ and _distressed_ by some news I have just been given from my Brother. News of a…” Her words failed her. She sighs. 

“… _Of a_ most _awful_ nature…” She finished. Her eyes met his, and her lips parted. Her brow creased in worry.

“The worst thing of all, is that this news, it concerns _you_ , Hugh.” She finally got out. Though her stomach felt like molten lead, and her throat felt far too restricted. She could barely speak.

Hugh’s face fell, he blinked and swallowed. His eyes dulled to the colour of a shaded ocean, but he looked no less concerned.

“ _Yy_ -you- You _lied_ to me. Hugh. _You lied_ …” Iris cried, and the words came tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop stuttering them out.

The Reverend went to shake his head, but Iris stopped him when she held up the two clippings Thomas had given her.

Hugh’s jaw went stiff. But there were tears still in his eyes.

“This is _true, isn’t it?_ This is you? Reverend Everett. You told me you were on a Parish in Suffolk before you came here. This was the _real reason_ you were dismissed?” She asked, she just _had_ to know.

Hugh looked at the clipping she had handed him before he answers.

“It is.” He replied, voice choking on emotion.

“And your wife’s name was _Catherine._ Wasn’t it? You told me so yourself that day we took a walk together from Sunday mass…” She enquired further.

“ _Yes_.” He confirmed shortly. Looking at the floor. Emotion strangling his speech all the more now.

Iris shook her head looking at him. She handed him the letter. Hearing a breath skip as he took it from his hands.

“Hugh. I am very sorry, but I _cannot_ receive you here at Chatsworth anymore. And I would please ask that you halt all correspondence, and make no effort to contact me. I _cannot_ see you further in any capacity – under _any_ circumstances.” She informed him with a heavy heart, so heavy she doubt she’d be able to _move_ from the very spot she stood in.

“May I ask…”

He begins, watching her intently, but she very defiantly shakes her head, and two tears streak very fast from her eyes. 

“ _No. No_ you _may not.”_ She finishes sharply. Intending that to be the last of it.

“Then I shall leave you now. Very sorry to have, _hampered so,_ upon your time. Lady Kenworthy. Forgive me.”

He speaks evenly. Though Iris could very plainly see the tears gathering in his eyes. He handed her back the letters, which her shaking, trembling hands took.

Before he could stop himself, he reached for her hand, and leaned forwards to kiss it. But far above up the grand staircase, someone brusquely clearing their throat caught both their attentions. Hugh looked up to see the Dowager stood, hands folded together as she stood stationary on the steps, high up, peering down her nose at the two of them. Her bright eyes daggering a piercing glare at Hugh in particular.

“I think you had better _leave.”_

She spoke loftily. Her voice colder and sharper than early mornings frost. There was edge to her tone. A dangerous blades edge of a voice. Hugh had seen arrowheads that were duller than her tone.

Hugh drags his eyes from the vile woman, and they land on Iris. He leaned and placed the tenderest kiss on the back of her hand. Seeing her face scrunched, and she could barely hold back her sadness at him kissing her hand for _the_ last time.

“I sincerely wish you _all_ the best, Madam.” He informs her, looking down at her with fondness.

Iris doesn’t look at him. If she does, she’ll crumble away into nothing. Especially not when he stayed close for a moment and spoke under his breath, softly, reverently, and only to her. Out of her mother’s earshot.

“Just for your apprehension, Iris Kenworthy, my heart _is_ , _and always will_ , belong _to you_.”

He tells her. Because he knows beyond doubt that that _has to be_ the last words he ever speaks to her. They simply _have to be._

He pulls back from, what was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever met, both inside and out. And looks at her one last time.

“Butler, Footman, Escort this man _out_ of the house. He is henceforth not permitted to call upon _anyone inside it_.”

Comes the Dowagers insistent bark. She hadn’t bothered to learn the trifling matter of the servant’s names.

By this point, she had become restless with Hugh’s lingering, so it seemed, having summoned the Butler and a rather brawny footman, who now stood, impatient to escort the rogue Reverend out of the house, and out of their sights for good. Hugh tears his eyes from the woman in front of him to glower stonily at the Dowager, and without saying another word, excited the house without making another sound.

Iris stood. Not able to move. Not able to speak. She stood watching the spot where he had just been. The fragrance of him still filling the air. The must from the paper in his old bibles, the pine from the pews in his chapel which somehow oddly lingered on his coat. The familiar musk of his earthy cologne penetrating her senses. Making her cry all the more, she tries to stem the tears, clapping a hand over her mouth. But all that did was muffle her choking sobs.

She hears her Mother speak again, but at this point she cannot register a word that is being said.

“What is done, _is done_. Iris _. Now,_ Please tell the butler I wish for a tray of tea, and the carriage to town at five o’clock.” She demands, turning her regal head, and walking away up into the house.

Iris couldn’t take it anymore, her knees shake, and before she can take one step, her legs crumple beneath her like soggy paper, and she goes tumbling to the floor on her knees, her skirts billow out around her and she slumps and sobs, loudly, uncaring for who heard it. The incriminating papers in her hand dance, arcing in the air for a moment, before fluttering, skidding down onto the polished tiles, like macabre confetti.

Rapid footsteps, rushing urgently across the floors, capture her attention. And she looked up through tear filled eyes, and sniffing sobs, to see her sister-in-law making quick work of the hallway, holding her skirts aloft as she ran to hear, softly calling her name.

“Iris _? Iris…”_

Elizabeth called, running swiftly across to the woman. Horrified to see her in such a state. She was in front of the woman now, stroking her back, pulling her close, soothing her cries as Iris gave up, she was too weak to fight the sadness, she let it take her, slouching, sobbing into Elizabeth’s hold. Through the sobs, The Duchess could vaguely make out what the woman was saying, repeating it as if a religious mantra. Elizabeth could feel her trembling, and her hands were ice cold.

“I _had to do_ it. _He lied to me._ Elizabeth, _I couldn’t help it. I love_ him, _but I had_ to let him go.” She cried. Over, and over.

Elizabeth was kneeling opposite her now, pulling tendrils of raven hair away from her red raw eyes, brimmed with pain and sorrow, tears sliding gently down her face. Her eyes were far off in the distance, not focusing on her friend.

“What _happened?_ ” She asked with worry weighing on her brow. Last she had seen they were madly enamoured, in each other’s arms. Or happily taking tea together, or in each other’s company on a walk round the gardens.

“ _He’s not_ the man I thought he was.” Iris spoke in a broken, quiet voice.

Iris slid the papers which hadn’t fallen too far, into Elizabeth’s sight. And after reading them, Elizabeth looked, shocked, to Iris once more for an explanation.

“…Surely it _cannot be?”_ She asks.

Iris nodded.

“How could he deceive us so? He’s too…” She began, not knowing what else to say. “Has Thomas seen these?” She enquired.

“ _He_ gave them to me.” Iris offered.

Elizabeth’s jaw went tight. They may not have been speaking, but she would have appreciated her husband including her on something of this shocking magnitude. But, clearly, he had sought not to involve her in anything as penance for her reaction to him and Anabelle. Utterly immature behaviour on his behalf.

“Misunderstanding?” Elizabeth asked with hope.

“I’m going to accept The Earl of Audley’s proposal of marriage.” Iris added.

Elizabeth could’ve been knocked over with a feather. Iris thought she couldn’t look less shocked if she tried her very best too.

The Duchess opened her mouth, but no sound came forth.

“Iris- Don’t.” She began.

“I must.” Iris insisted.

“ _But-“_ Elizabeth fought “He _is vile_ , he- at the ball, _he. Iris_ you _can’t_ wed him. _You simply can’t!_ He is a _foul beast_ of a man, he is _not to be_ believed for the genial member of the gentry he _so claims_ to be. You _don’t_ love him, and he, _himself_ , has disclosed to me _that…”_ She began, rambling faster than her brain could keep up with her.

“Elizabeth.” Iris finished firmly, stopping her short. It was like a beloved animal turning round and suddenly biting her hand, it took her completely by surprise. So much so, in fact, it stunned her into silence.

“I have loved _two_ men in my life. I lost one to the war, and I just lost the second to scandal, deceit and ruin.” She explained.

“Iris, _you can’t_ wed Audley... _Don’t_. _Please, just_ -” Elizabeth cries, desperately trying to explain to her about what kind of man he was. A fact their poor nineteen year old housemaid could attest truthfully too.

Iris snatched her hand back from her relative, and heaves herself to a stand.

“Elizabeth, I am a _Kenworthy._ ” She presses as firmly as she could. “That may not _mean much_ to you, having _married into_ the title, I myself have _known nothing else_ , this is bigger, than you or me, or selfish wishes. I have grown up with it my whole life, night and day for thirty one years. I need to consider _my families’_ reputation, _and_ my own. I cannot think of my own needs and desires in this matter. I am a war widow, a spinster, _forgotten_ on the shelf. And I will continue to be there, _rotting away_ on that shelf forevermore, unless I take the time to change that fact. I need to seek a suitor who will _provide handsomely_ for me, and my girl’s. I _cannot_ live off my brother’s charity _forever,_ Elizabeth. And why should my chances not be good with an Earl? So what if he beastly manners, and doesn’t behave in a way _you approve_ of. _I cannot afford_ to be fastidious in this matter. I am a Kenworthy. A Lady. _I must marry well_. It is _my duty_. I’m sorry, but you _cannot pretend_ to understand my position in this. You are not _entitled enough_ to _fully understand_.” She finished, silently walking away to the orangery afterwards. Without another word.

Elizabeth got to her feet, watching her go. She turned and went to head back to her own study, she’d have to go and break the sad, sorry news to Edith. She was just heading in the direction of her study, when she caught Thomas watching her from the blue salon doorway.

 _“Your doing_ as I understand it?” Elizabeth asked coolly. Referring to Iris.

Thomas sighed.

“You think I took _any pleasure_ from having to tell her that?” He asks in a cutting tone.

“I don’t know. I don’t know _what_ you _take pleasure_ in these days, Thomas.” She quips.

 _“Save_ for debutantes on dark terraces of course.”

She calls over her shoulder, finishing the conversation with a scathing bite, but walking away with a headful of confusing thoughts and a sad, heavy heart.

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Elizabeth once mentioned she does have relatives up in Scotland. Clan McKurick up near Loch Kinloch Rannoch. At Castle Alderth. Her Uncle Angus, Auntie Thora, and all of her eight male cousins - Rabbie, Tammas, Finley, Fergus, Duncan, Garrick, Hamish and William. All who are as tall as they are red headed. And all very protective over their (Co-ogha.) Cousin Lizzie. Their Bonnie English lassie. She has been putting them off for as long as she feels necessary and polite. Though they've very big hearts and she knows doubtlessly they would cross their swords without a moments hesitation to anyone who offended her - they're a rowdy, unignorable bunch to be taken strictly in small doses.


	96. Private Confessions, Ungodly Men, and Eavesdroppers...

 

 

~ A Week Later, A dejected Reverend Sits alone, In an empty Chapel ~

 

Almost a week had passed since what felt like his heart had been ripped savagely, beating and sore, right out of his very chest. He had then been dismissed from Chatsworth with all possible haste, and he had no doubt that soon, the letter would arrive, relieving him of his living, and dismissing him of the first good parish and decent home he’d had in years. He couldn’t decide which was the worse of the evils, waiting upon it, knowing the letter would come, or having to toil in uselessness til it finally arrived, and put him out of his misery.

Of course, the gossip of his past had spread like wildfire around Derbyshire. He could feel the potent, burning weight of people’s disapproving stares on him as he passed by them in the street. He could see It in the way his own parishioners ignored him blankly when he bid them a good morning. Of course, come Sunday mass, he doesn’t know why he bothered putting on his swallow tailed coat, and strode quickly across to the church come seven in the morning, darting through the pouring rain to unlock the doors. Because it was apparent that he needn’t have bothered.

 _No one had come_.

Even Sampson, his verger, hadn’t showed. He too had turned with the tide of people who now hated him. Thought him a despicable reprobate.

He sat now in the front pew, clutching his old prayer book, completely alone in his cold, empty chapel. The smell of dust and the cold flagstone surrounding him.

The only light and movement in the place came from the few remembrance candles he had lit a when he first came in, an _old habit_. He had lit one for in mourning for his Catherine, and then one in hope for Iris. The woman he would _never_ have. 

He then looked down upon the battered old prayer book in his hands, flipping open the solid cover to see the familiar line of text scrawled inside the cover.

_‘To my dashing, darling Perce, with love from your wife, Catherine’_

He couldn’t help a tear or two at that. They fell onto his cravat, and he closed the book, holding it tight in his hands, sniffing back his grief, biting his lip as he pressed a kiss to the tatty old book. The old smell of its musty paper and the ancient leather bound cover smacking him in the nose as he did. He’d had to endure so much suffering in his life, he could only hope it would be a small kindness that Iris would live a _better_ life without him. He prayed for that small, glimmering mercy harder than he’d _ever_ prayed before. He sobbed his prayer. Hoping above all else that it was heard. He spoke, through tears and misery. Hopefully, the divine was listening when everyone else seemed to have written him off entirely.

“My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.” He asked. “Do not be far from me; for you are my strength, come quickly and help me, Lord.” He said hopefully. His fists clenched tight on the book as he prayed.

“Even _if I am_ quoting two different verses from psalm at the same time. “ He muttered under his breath.

He stood, wiping away his tears with a quick swipe of his hand, thinking that he had better find something useful to do. He’d have to get the chapel ready to hand over to the next Clergyman soon, so organising the prayer books was the first task to get done. He crossed to the pulpit, starting to sort the books into their rightful place with his back to the chapel, but he then became aware of the company lurking by the doors down the far end.

The scuffing of fine boots stepping onto the flagstones caught his attention, he turned, thinking it may have been some of the parishioners who hadn’t heard, or, worse, who had heard and were here to let him know what kind of wretch they now thought him. But when he turned, he saw it was _worse_ even still, than the latter.

The Earl of Audley stood in the arched doorway, leering at him. Dressed In all his usual finery, his pressed scarlet coat, starched white cravat, and his black boots polished and buffed to the highest shine. His hands folded behind his back, and his green eyes glittering with malice.

“Sermons _bore_ everyone to _death, did they?”_ He asked with a snide smile.

Hugh’s face, and mood dropped. And slowly placed his books down, effectively ignoring him, and continuing his task. Not turning to meet his foul gaze.

“I shouldn’t expect one such _as you_ to set much stock by religious preaching that gives comfort to many of the faithful.” Hugh replied stiffly. Causing the Earl to sneer at him.

 _“Oh_. Has the sullen Reverend _suddenly_ grown a backbone since last I spoke to him?” The Earl smirked. “I don’t expect such _backlash_ from a clergyman.” He tutted, and tsk-ed.

Hugh gently set down the book he held on the shelf. And turned slowly to face the man who embodied all the evil in his life. All the suffering on his shoulders, all the pain, it all stemmed from this man stood before him. For the life of him, he doesn’t know what is keeping him so tranquil. Perhaps the lord _was_ giving him the strength of mind to remain composed after all.

“If all you’ve come here to do is make _cutting_ remarks, and declare your  _snide_ amusement at my misery, may I point out very strongly that there are better ways to fill ones day. So _kindly remove_ yourself from here, to find more useful employment _elsewhere.”_ Hugh suggests curtly, his voice rising to a shout almost.

“Everett, I’ve been laughing at your _misery_ and your _misfortune_ my _whole damned_ life.” Audley retorted with a sickening grin.

“Of that I am most painfully _aware._ ” Hugh snaps back quickly.

The two men glared at one another. Hugh wasn’t half wondering, as he had done many times in his life, every time Audley became entangled in his life, if he was put on this earth merely to test Hugh’s moral and divine patience. If there was ever a man to mess with his morals of _‘loving thy neighbour’_ it was this man before him.

“Why are you _here?”_ Hugh asks again with a terse voice.

“Aren’t you going to _congratulate me_ on my engagement?” Audley sneers.

“I’ll be _praying_ for Iris’s sake.”

Hugh informed him briskly. Turning back to his books, hoping he would leave if he found his bullying fell on deaf ears, that he’d grow bored, and go away. 

This caused Audley’s smile to twitch audaciously up on one side. He looked down to his boots, stepping closer into the chapel. Knowing he was working his way under the unflappable man’s skin. It was a hugely satisfying thought.

“I’m sure Iris will simply _adore_ being the Countess of Audley. Those infuriating girls of hers will be the _first to go_ though. Can’t be doing with any _annoying little brats_ populating my home. And I’m sure Iris will be completely _obedient_ as a wife, just what suits me, I find. _Meek, quiet_. She won’t look twice at my having mistresses. I am sure she doesn’t love me, and though I cannot deny she is of _great beauty_ , I certainly don’t love her. _She’s pleasing_. But I find her _rather plain_ for my tastes, moping around after her dead spouse…”

He drawled, all the while as he rambled on, walking closer and closer to Hugh. Whose blood was reaching boiling point. But he would not give Audley the satisfaction of showing him how potent the effect his words were having on his temper.

“ _Matter of fact_. I’m surprised it’s been such a _bothersome_ free chase for her hand, I expected that _oaf_ of a Duke to put up a bigger fight in losing his beloved widow of a sister. _Actually_ , come to think of it, I expected Kenworthy to thank me on _his hands and knees_ for taking the sorry spinster off his hands...”

He remarked aloud. Seeing that Hugh hadn’t so much as turned to take in his words. Outwardly he let nothing show save for his stormy eyes, and his gritted jaw, though internally, his rage was _volcanic._

Audley could see the man hadn’t at all changed. It took a lot to rile him, but he was too ‘ _devout_ ’ to ever snap and truly take his anger out on the man. He didn’t even _falter_ in his task. The Earl turned and saw that one book sat on the front pew.

“Oh, looky here, _you missed one_ , Everett.”

He informed, marching over and snatching the battered prayer book into his hands.

_That did the trick._

Hugh turned and his eyes widened, and he stood stock still at the fact that the beastly lout has his hands all over the book that Catherine had given him when they were courting. _His own, personal_ bible. Audley cocked his head, smirking at the fact he had hit a nerve at last. He made a show if it. Examining the thing, turning the book over in his hands. Studying it carefully, and before Hugh could snatch it back, Audley opened the cover and his smile contorted into the most evil thing he had ever seen. The man laughed, he laughed loudly, mocking Hugh, before throwing the bible back. Hugh made no effort to catch it. He let it thud to the floor.

“ _Catherine.”_ He chuckled. “ _After all this time?_ _Still hung up on her_ _are we?_ Carrying around a pathetic reminder of her in your pocket. I’m surprised you’re not still wearing your wedding ring, _Mrs Havisham._ ” He taunted.

“She was my wife. The _very love of my life,_ not that I expect a _foul git_ like you would know _what true love feels_ like.”

Hugh pointed out in a proud voice. At Audley pointing fun at his sentimental object, his right hand absentmindedly rubbed across the indent where his golden wedding ring once sat on his left hand.

“No. you’re right, I don’t know love, _I doubt I ever shall_. But here I am, about to marry the _second woman_ who you’ve fallen so madly in love with. You _never_ had a chance at Iris. I always get my way, Everett, I’m untouchable. _Funny old world like that,_ isn’t it?” He derided “And, If I am to believe the _rumours flying_ around, Reverend, the truth is, by next week they’ll be some other withered crone of a clergyman in this chapel droning on and on about God. Pity _your scandalous past_ caught up with you at last. _Tsk tsk_ , Hugh. A man of your standing _should know better_ …” He chided, stepping close.

Hugh’s face was stony and cold looking upon the man he despised more than hell itself.

“It’s not _my past_ though? _Is it?”_ Hugh growled.

“ _Don’t_ see _how_ you can _deny_ it. Iris has the clippings in black and white _. As good as_ truth is ever truth _was needed_.” Audley smiled.

Hugh shook his head in disbelief. _This man was beyond all contemptible evil. He was a sociopath with a blind need to cause harm and misery, and then laugh in its wake._

“You _dare hurt her_ once you’re wed...” Hugh spoke quietly, leaving his threat unfinished. Tears sparkling n his eyes, his fists clenched tight.

 _“Or what?_ God will _smite me_ down?” Audley goaded, chuckling. “ _Pathetic…”_ He snarled, giving Catherine’s bible on the floor a resounding kick, sending it scattering across the flagstones in the dust and the dirt.

Hugh was silent. Not knowing what else to say. The only sounds that penetrated the silence was the gentle patter of rain that hammered the chapel’s roof from outside.

“You’ve got Iris. _You’ve won_ , my life is a _misery now_ , thanks to you. What else could _you possibly_ _want from me?_ I’ve given you everything I have, Audley, so what else does your _foul black heart_ _desire now?”_ Hugh shouted. Getting closer than he ever would have desired to the man.

Audley’s pine green eyes glinted with malice, and for once, his smile dropped from his face.

“You know very well what I want. I want to _see the boy.”_

“As far as _the boy_ is concerned. He is Robert and Margaret McMurray’s son. And _you will_ stay away from my sister…”

“What if I _can’t help it?_ ” He sneered nastily.

Hugh’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fist so tight his arm shook.

 _“Besides. I’m untouchable_. Everett. What are you _going to do_ to me if I _do go near her?”_ He asked.

Hugh tilted his head.

 _“He’s_ still in your favour _isn’t he?_ Old Sawnie? Still your biggest pawn?” Hugh spoke quietly.

The resounding flash of panic that flared across the Earl’s eyes was simply _divine. Hugh wasn’t one to find pleasure in others peoples misery, but as it was Audley’s, it was reasonably well justified_

“You wouldn’t _dare…”_ He thundered. Hugh revelled in knowing he had exposed the bundle of nerves that laid hidden. Locked away.  

“Margaret stays left alone, and I _won’t_. You can hurt me, beat me, take my life away, take my money, break my heart, break _my body_ if you so wish, but for love of god, don’t. You. Dare. _touch, her_. _Not again.”_ Hugh snarled lowly, vitriol filling his senses, and he viciously prodded the Earl in the chest, making him stumble back by a couple of inches. Seeing this caused Audley to glare horribly at him. Hugh knowing he had him well and truly stumped.

“Deal.” Audley sneered with an angry grimace.

The Earl turned to leave. His audaciousness returning as he sauntered back towards the door with the usual air of arrogance in his swaggering walk.

“This really is _a lovely_ little church…” He cooed in an all too wide smirk, patting the wooden pew that he was closest too. Looking up to admire the wooden beams above him. “ _Shame_ …” He sighed, in a way that caught Hugh’s attention. There was something deeper, darker in his eyes. Something menacing he dreaded the look of. 

“How are you finding life as a _Pariah?_ By the way? Does it _cut you_ to know that you’ll be leaving this poxy little Parish _far sooner_ than you think?” Audley asked.

“Get out.” Hugh bit out, turning back to his books.

“That’s right, turn back to your _snivelling little_ prayer books. Like you have done your whole life, Everett _. Catherine_ told _me that_ , you know? She said you were a man who only found God because no one else would _have you._ ” He mocked. “Luckily for her, she found a man who paid more attention to _her_ than to his musty old books and age old texts.”

“The same man who abandoned her before she died, knowing she wouldn’t gain _a penny_ of a fortune…” Hugh asked.

He turned to see Audley shrug.

“I’m thankful for the small mercy that it was her illness that killed her before she could die of a broken heart.” Hugh rasped, turning back from the man.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and see my beautiful fiancée.” Audley said, poking pain at the Reverend.

“In that case, tell Iris I’ll be praying most ardently for to ease her suffering.” Hugh called.

Audley opened his mouth to snarl something back, but the both of them were disturbed by a sound coming from the chapel doors. The wood was old, and sometimes swelled in the cold and wet, and would only budge with excessive force, and as it had squeaked it was obvious that someone had pushed it from the _other side._ Meaning that their conversation could have been overheard.

“Hello There?” Hugh called, striding quickly past Audley, coming to the doors, pulling them open, he could see nothing but the rain pelting the stone porch, trickling down the walls, the cold wet smell hitting his face, as the dark stormy sky thundered all the more, he looked down, to see that on the small porch, a book had been left. A book of collected religious essays by Florian Lynch.

He knew instantly who had been listening in.

 _Edith_.

 

 

 

~

 

The rain was coming down furiously outside, and confined in her study, sat the Duchess of Chatsworth. Today Violet was keeping her company, sat quietly humming along, as she tried to complete her needlepoint. – She was far more skilled at it than Felicity could have hoped to have been, and a great deal quieter at it too. Elizabeth was just going over some letters sat at her desk. Frowning over her spectacles at the problems that one of their tenants, Mrs Brockhurst, was having with her chimney.

Both ladies looed to the window as a loud rumble of thunder powered across the room, the lightening briefly illuminating the darkened, bruised sky.

“It’s really coming down out there…” Violet remarked casually.

Elizabeth sighed in agreement. “It’ll do the _farm some much needed good._ Ashby has been plaguing me, complaining of dry ground for weeks…” The Duchess smiled. Hopefully the rain would provide some vitality for the thirsty greenery around them, and a bonus, shut Ashby up with his damned moaning.

“I was thinking of going into town tomorrow to see Réné, perhaps you’d care to _join me?_ She’d adore to meet you.” Elizabeth smiled. Peering across to her friend across her spectacles that Violet felt made her look like a sturdy old librarian.

“I’m afraid _I can’t_. Benedict said that he’d take me tomorrow morning to see the dales…” Violet spoke out, not really tuning into her words, concentrating too hard on her needlework.

Elizabeth blinked, her smile widening as he brows shot up her head.

“Is he, _indeed?_ ” She asked with a winning grin that was famous in London for its potent beauty. It made Violet glare when she realised it was being aimed at her.

“ _Stop that_.” Violet said tersely, glaring at her friend, her hand paused on her embroidery, just as she went to pull a stitch through.

“ _Stop what_?” Elizabeth asked, innocent as a new-born.

“Enjoying yourself.” Violet grumped, her head down, refocused on her work.

“ _Enjoying oneself_ is _not_ a _crime_ , dear friend.” She beamed.

Violet glared once more. For good measure.

“You enjoy yourself _far too much_ where _Benedict and I_ are concerned.”

“What happened to calling him, Sir Carlton?” Elizabeth grinned like a very pretty, auburn haired wolf.

Violets jaw tightened.

“He. _we_.I -yo-. _I’m ignoring_ you now. You’re behaving _very ill_ for a Duchess. I shall _not reward_ such ill behaviour.” Violet scorned.

Elizabeth chuckled in satisfaction.

“Gertie will be _so pleased_.” Elizabeth spoke aloud. “You’ve _caught_ the Earl of Herefordshire.”

 _“Couldn’t care_.” Violet called dismissively from the sofa.

“Do let me know if it’s a spring or summer wedding, _won’t you?”_ Elizabeth smiles, going back to her letters.

Elizabeth swears she distinctly heard a _‘I might not invite you at all at this rate’_ under her breath from across the room. And wondered at what point Violet would resort to lobbing velvet pillows at her friend in order to shut her up.

A sudden clattering to the terrace doors made both woman jump, jolting in their separate seats as there came a sudden commotion that was someone banging insistently on the large, locked French doors. Elizabeth bolted from her seat, and crossed to the window, seeing her niece the other side of the large door, banging to get in. Soaked to the bone, her ink coloured hair plastered to her neck, shivering in the cold and wind outside. Her hem was inches thick in mud and blades of grass. Elizabeth could see there was a frenzied energy to her blue eyes.

 _“Edith?_ What _on earth_ -“ Elizabeth exclaimed

She wrenched open the door and pulled the freezing, trembling girl inside. Standing her on the rug as she latched the door shut, hearing the thumping rain louder outside, along with the hustle of the wind and the chilling temperature outdoors. Her arm was almost sodden _from just reaching_ outside to pull the door back in, so _heaven knows_ how _soaked_ Edith was.

What was even more surprising, however, was the first words out of Edith’s chattering teeth, as Violet wrapped a nearby blanket about her shoulders.

“ _He was f-framed!_ ” Were her first words.

Elizabeth’s brow crinkled in confusion. “ _Framed?_ ” She enquired

 _“Who_ was framed?” Violet asked, rugs and settee be damned from water marks, they sat Edith on the nearest armchair, rubbing her arms to warm her up quicker, cocooning her in the woollen throw.

“Reverend Everett. I went t-to the chapel to give him a b-b-book back, and when I-I got there, Audley had arrived, and th-they were arguing about the E-Earl framing him, an-and…” She rambled in one short breath.

“Audley framed Everett?” Elizabeth asked.

Edith nodded, her chin wobbling as her teeth chattered madly.

“Hugh-h wa-warned Audley to keep-p away from -m-m-Margaret, and a b-boy…” Edith confessed, unsticking a soggy strand of hair from being fixed to the side of her face.

Elizabeth’s ears pricked at that. It brought back to her mind when they had gone to Sunday mass, and Audley was seen careering about on his horse, capturing their attention. And Elizabeth remembers then being caught by the way Margaret McMurray had paled, stricken, at the sight of Audley. Which, given what Edith had just said, only made her all the more curious.

Elizabeth looked to Violet, who gave her friend a concerned look right back.

“Audley’s lying?” Elizabeth asked Edith.

“I don’t k-know the dddetails. But _yes_. A _-And._ The letter you saw? The one written from h-Hugh’s wife, it wasn’t _written **about**_ him it was addressed, **_to_** ,him.” Edith explained.

Violet soothingly rubbed Edith’s shivering back in comfort.

Elizabeth’s face fell into a very sober, angered expression. _No one would lie their way into her family. Not on her watch._

“Let’s get you into a nice _hot bath,_ Edith. Then afterwards, I think you need to sit, have a pot of tea, and tell us _everything_ you overheard.” Elizabeth insisted.

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia, in her youth, was once very nearly married to a Russian Count. But they amicably decided to be friends. They still write one another, of course, the both of them are elderly now. But they still possess deep feelings for each other. It is the one thing Ophelia doesn't like talking about. (For it makes her seem too human) Elizabeth's curiosity was peaked when Ophelia received a letter - on the back written in Russian was the phrase 'moy malen'kiy krolik' which means 'To my Little Bunny.' She never enquired again after that.


	97. Handy Pickpockets, Deals, and Kind Vicars...

 

 

 

 

~ Elizabeth In Blue ~

 

 

The Kenworthy carriage rolled to a slow stop, coming up a bustling street in Castleton, gently easing to a lurching stop, the footman leapt down in a way he had almost perfected to an art. A couple of nosy passers-by in the street watched, and looked to see just exactly whom of the Kenworthy family would exit it. The small door was opened, and people began to murmur amongst themselves as the Duchess of Chatsworth, _and only the Duchess,_ exited the coach.

Elizabeth gracefully accepted Willard’s hand, as he helped her come to a graceful stand on the pavement. The whispers and nudges began in their plenty upon seeing it was her. The cooing’s into ears of _‘that poor woman’_ and ‘ _isn’t she brave.’_ Referring to the unfortunate, recent, incident of her being cuckolded by her husband at the Lady Marie Ball. There was _no mistaking_ the woman for any other. The fire coloured hair, the elegant dress, and the long, graceful build of the slender, shapely woman. Her fair ivory skinned face, so delicately structured, the way her cheekbones looked like bone china, and her lips, were remarked around Derbyshire to have the sweetest smile. A smile that could warm a man to the backbone to see it. So it was a wonder, a complete mystery, as to why the Duke had suddenly decided to cuckhold Elizabeth for a silly debutante, who had _half_ of the Duchesses beauty. It truly was an oddity.

Elizabeth smoothed out a wrinkle in her cobalt coloured coat, and turned to address Ramsey and Willard. Today she was wearing a Lândry artwork. The bodice was the deepest midnight blue velvet, but the skirts were a powder blue silk. Trimmed with silver silk.

“No need to _wait_ for me, Ramsey. I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town. Why don’t you head on back. And I’ll walk back to Chatsworth when I’m done…” Elizabeth smiled up to the coach driver, and the footman.

“ _Aye,_ Mi’Lady.” Ramsey nods, tipping his hat.

“And don’t forget I shall be passing _back_ up this way, so _I’ll know_ if you decide to take lunch, wet your gullets, and spend most of your wages in the White Harp.” Elizabeth winks to the footmen, before she sidles away, Willard and Hastings bawling into laughter that she had caught out Ramsey’s plan. Hastings hopped up to the back stop, whilst Willard, at the front on the drivers’ bench clapped the downcast man on the back.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Elizabeth.” Willard calls after her, as the coach makes a turn, and much to Ramsey’s disappointment, heads back to Chatsworth. Elizabeth smiles watching them go. Before she reaches up to adjust her hat, before turning and continuing on her way through the streets towards the dress emporium on Garnet Lane.

She breathed in all the bustle and fuss of life going on around her. The market stalls, the clack and rhythm of the horses and carriages going by in the street. The shouting and volume of the market stalls in the square flogging their goods. The attractions in every glass shop front that beckoned to her so temptingly as she walked on by. She stopped to admire a beautiful window display, the lace, buttons and trims of the haberdashery. She was just admiring the laid out, finest Italian, and Belgian lace when an exclamation cooed her name on her right side.

“Lady Elizabeth…” Came a sudden, loud shrill.

Elizabeth turned her regal head to see none other than Derbyshire’s finest busy body, Miss Eunice Palethorpe, and her Mother, Mrs Cecelia Palethorpe stood beside her. Miss Eunice was a vision in startling pink. With a plum and peach feathered hat that looked insanely heavy, and the colours of which were as flamboyant as her lurid character. Eunice had a long, epicene face that wasn’t particularly feminine, but was always made up prettily in rouges, and lip colours. Her lips were her most protruding, prominent feature. And she made great show of pronouncing the beauty spot – which when unmade was actually a wart – on her left cheek, though she had long, curly, wheaten hair and copper brown eyes. Mrs Palethorpe, was dressed in a moss green gown, with a large sage hat that looked like a small sailboat perched on her dark, greying hair. She had the same lips, and eyes as that of her brown eyed daughter, only hers had gathered more years by the age lines near her lips and eyes. They were both sweet enough women, but She can remember Thomas had smiled and whispered into her ear once at a ball after she’d been introduced, that the pair of their noses and neck’s should have been crafted far longer, as the both of them spent so much time leaning and peering in on other peoples conversations.

“Eunice, Cecelia. What an unexpected pleasure.” Elizabeth grinned, nodding her head civilly towards them. Her voice light and jovial.

“I was just telling Mama, I don’t think I have ever seen a ballroom look _as pleasant_ as that of Chatsworth at the Lady Marie Ball.” Eunice cooed.

Elizabeth smiled at the compliment, seeing Mrs Palethorpe nod most eagerly in agreement.

“I was, _sadly, unable_ to attend, you see. My constitution is not what I used to be, I find large balls rather _trying,_ in my old age. Too much _chatter and noise_. But Eunice filled me in _on every single_ wonderful aspect, I felt I was there experiencing it all.” She clucked proudly.

“I’m _delighted_ it was deemed a success. It was, _uh_ …a… _memorable_ experience.” Elizabeth smiled falsely, her eyes downcast for a second, before she covered her pain with another one of her fine smiles.

Eunice Palethorpe’s eyes suddenly shot wide, and she clasped a hand over her mouth. In taking so much air Elizabeth was surprised she didn’t ingest the whole street.

“ _Oh_ , my goodness. _Oh._ I’m _so, daft. Oh_ , I completely forgot, about, the _Miss Hastings, incident_ …” Eunice whispered darkly under her breath.

 _“Oh, yes_.” Mrs Palethorpe added in a saddened sigh. “How are you _faring,_ my dear? _You poor soul._ _Such a shame_. For it to happen to _a lovely girl_ such as _you.”_ She fussed, laying a hand over Elizabeth’s own.

The Duchess swallowed down the uncomfortable feeling in her throat, and how tears speared the sides of her eyes. She slapped a serene smile on her face to cover up her pain. She smiled wider and placed her hand over Mrs Palethorpe’s. Showing them kindness seven though their gossiping was something she would rather not involve herself in.

“Water under the bridge. Mrs Palethorpe. Rest assured. It was nothing but a, blunder.” Elizabeth offered.

“ _Word is_ …” Eunice adds, peering cautiously around in case anyone was listening in, before she carried on prudent in the knowledge it was safe to continue. “…That Anabelle has been spreading around rumours that she is now the _Duke’s mistress_. Her mother and Father are at their wits end. There is talk of sending her away to relatives all the way down in West Sussex, for the way she is starting to exhibit _such loose_ behaviour.”

“She is a scandalous girl.” Mother Palethorpe bristled.

“A foul girl.” Eunice agreed.

“A Foul, _foul,_ girl.” Mrs Palethorpe parroted.

“I shall never speak to her again so long as I live and breathe.” Eunice swore “For the harm she did.” She sniffed detestfully.

“West Sussex doesn’t know what’s coming its way.” Mrs Palethorpe predicted aloud.

“They should _ship her off_ to another country if you ask me…” Eunice chimed in.

“ _Timbuktu wouldn’t be far enough for her_.” Elizabeth mumbled snidely under her breath.

“I’m _sorry_ , I didn’t catch that, did you _say something_ dear?” Mrs Palethorpe asked.

“No, I _uh. I um_. I _just_ remembered my, _uh_ , appointment with the Dressmakers, I must rush, ladies, or else I’m afraid I’ll _be late_. It was _so pleasant_ bumping into you two. We shall have to have you to tea, sometime soon.” Elizabeth lied through her smile, stepping off in her intended direction.

“ _Oh_ , it would be our pleasure! _Wouldn’t it_ mother?” Eunice squealed excitedly.

“Oh, _Indeed,_ it would be an _honour_.” Mother Palethorpe agreed.

“Until _next time_ , Miss Elizabeth.” Miss Palethorpe called in a sickly saccharine tone, flitting her fingers in a wave as Elizabeth went, The Duchess continued to smile at them until she drew out of sight.

Lovely, harmless women they may have been, but they _were exhausting_ company. Her cheeks hurt from all the smiling she had to keep up. She brought up a gloved hand to rub her cheeks, before she made her way through the market stalls to get across the square, and up through to Garnet Street.

She stopped at a sweet little stall, which proudly boasted selling fine ribbons. She stopped for a moment to have a look. Smiling meekly to the woman vending the stall, who had her thick, dark hair plaited into a bright blue ribbon. Elizabeth complimented her on the loveliness of her displayed goods. Her velvet gloved hand reached out to admire and touch an emerald green ribbon, when a shout from behind her, snapped her back harshly into reality. She span round she felt a commotion behind her, only to see a beefy market vendor, grab onto a small boys arm, the boy in question being not but three inches from reaching into her coat pocket.

“Oi, you _little thief_!” The man shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, giving the boy a backhanded slap across the face. “ _I’ll tan_ your Hyde for you, _you little bugger_ ,”

Elizabeth could see this huge ship sized man had yellow, twisted teeth, and he was a very portly man, he had the small boy viced in his thick, sausage fingers wrapped around the twig like wrist of the scruffy boy who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. He wore scruffy shorts, battered little leather shoes and a dusty grey jacket, and a threadbare little flat cap was pulled down low over his pale, and muddy face. The way the boy squirmed and wriggled, his face flinching at the man’s grip. He was most likely in pain.

“ _Stop_ , please, _Let him go,_ it’s alright.”

Elizabeth soothed the large man, who turned his flabby head and scowled at her through heavy brows, scanning her up and down, obviously, he didn’t take kindly to be ordered about by _a woman._ He wore a stained white shirt rolled up to the elbows showing off his flabby forearms smattered with hair and faded tattoos, with a stained apron knotted round his rounded middle, with grubby, well-worn brown trousers and thick set boots on his feet. Judging by the heavy set nature, and the muscles under his size, his bloody apron most likely suggested he was a butcher. A butcher with a scowl like a bulldog, a balding head, and poor personal hygiene.

“He had his _grubby little hand_ halfway in _your pocket_ , _you daft mare_ , I saw him. Tried to _steal from ye’_ he did.”

The man protested loudly, the boy hadn’t so much as raised his head, looking down to the pavement hoping the ground would swallow him up. Stood with his arm still hung up high, stretched above his head, caught by her – _odorous_ and portly rescuer with fouler manners than a sewer rat.

Elizabeth felt inside her pocket, nothing had been taken, luckily her coin purse was safely ensconced in the other one. Nothing but a mere sixpence and a ha’penny weighted down the pocket in question.

“He _stole nothing_ from me. _Now please._ _Let him go_. _You’re hurting him_. Can’t you see _he’s in pain?”_

Elizabeth pointed out, able to see the huge red welt that the man had left all across his cheek.

“He’ll be in _a lot more pain_ by the time I’m _through wi’_ him.” The man growled.

 _“Pray_ indulge me, what is _your name, Sir_?” Elizabeth asked in her strictest, no-nonsense tone.

“Bertie Pemble. The Butcher.” The man informed her snidely, his face, she found had one expression it was good at, a scowl, and that appeared to be all.

“Well. Mr Pemble. _It’s indeed a pleasure_. Now, I am used to being called _many things_ in my days, for some call me, Mi’Lady, Your Ladyship, The Duchess of Chatsworth, Elizabeth, my friends often call me Libby, but no one _has ever called_  me a _‘daft mare’_ , except for _you_. You now singularly hold that _, exemplary_ , honour Mr Pemble.” She smiled affably.

The scowl dropped, and Mr Pemble almost looked like he’d seen a ghost, he swallowed in embarrassment, before attempting to affix himself, straightening his grubby shirt and combing what little was left of his hair back on his balding head. He reluctantly let the boys arm go, and Elizabeth could see there sat a stinging red mark on the child’s pale little wrist.

“Good afternoon to you, Mr Pemble, the butcher. In future, I suggest that you would please limit your savagery to your animal carcasses, _and not on_ small children.” She smiled, blinking at him prettily. The boy , who stood watching the exchange, was too shocked that a woman of her slight, pretty size had bested a man almost twice her height and several times her width.

Mr Pemble shuffled off, like a galleon setting sail, his head hung in shame, his tail between his legs as he slunk off back behind his stall. She watched him go, before she dropped to a crouch in front of the shocked boy. She tried to take his wrist and see the damage caused, but he flinched away from her touch, afraid if she’d hurt him. Cautious.

“It’s _alright_.” Elizabeth hushed gently. “I _won’t_ hurt you…” The boy took a cursory glance at her from underneath the hat. She could see he had scruffy hair the colour of mud, dirt streaked on his cheeks, a stinging red welt on his right cheek and he was looking up at her through big wet, doe brown eyes. She looked down on him, her brow creased with sympathy. She reached for her other pocket and drew out her embroidered, lacy handkerchief. She got as close as she dared, and began to wipe some of the dirt away from his face.

“That’s better… Can see you now.” She smiled. Watching the boy relax a little in her presence. He wiped under his nose with his sleeve.

“What’s your name?” She asked, seeing he was silent still. His big eyes still assessing her. Taking her in.

“Mines Elizabeth. Elizabeth Kenworthy. It’s _very nice_ to meet you, Mr…?” She tilted her head, holding out her hand for him to shake. He blinked, taking in the beauty of this kind lady, who’d made the grumpy old Pemble go away. She had a rosy smile, soft blue eyes, and he was mesmerised by the way the diamond droplets in her ears sparkled and shone in the dull daylight. Her beauty almost was paralysing to look at. But she spoke warmly, and had a kind pale face, and pretty hair the colour of flames. Surely she wouldn’t have made Pemble disappear if she wanted to hurt him, or get him in trouble.

“S-Seamus.” He admitted at last in a small, Irish accented voice.

“Seamus.” She smiled, repeating it. “That’s _a lovely_ name.” She smiled, and then, her eyes seemed to sparkle with something.

“And do you live in Castleton?” She asked. His answer of which was a head bobbling nod.

“Do you live with your family?” She enquires softly.

His answer this time, was a long shake of his head. She sighed glumly. He was most probably an orphan, and with no family to support and feed him, Elizabeth could only imagine with horror what he had to go through in order to survive. She digs in her pocket and finds the sixpence, she twists around, seeing the greengrocer not two stalls away, she turned back to Seamus.

“Wait here…” She beams, going to her full, elegant height, and walking off to the stall nearby. Seamus watches her go, leaving the aura of her lush smelling perfume lingering in the air around him. For a moment, he briefly considered bolting, but then he saw what she was carrying back towards him after handing the greengrocer two silver coins. She got back to him, crouching again, and handing him two, fuzzy yellow and pink, round globes of fruit. No bigger than a cricket ball. He lifts it to his nose, and smells the velveteen skin. It smelled sweeter than sugar, and the funny fuzz tickled his nose as he did.

“It’s a _peach_.” Elizabeth smiled at him, knowing that it had probably been some while since he’d last eaten fresh fruit. Meat, or bread were easy to swipe, ripe fruit, she imagines was harder to come by. “My favourite fruit. _Sweeter_ than apples.” She winks at him.

He hesitates for a moment, before mashing one furiously to his face, taking the largest bite out of it, feeling the silky sweet tang of the sweet fruit glide down his throat. The juice dribbled down over the side of his mouth, Elizabeth smiles and passes him her hanky. Telling him to keep it for emergencies. In almost three bites, there wasn’t much left but the stone. That’s when Seamus started on the second one.

“Why are you being _so kind_ to me?” Comes his tiny question, peering up at her from under the brim of his hat as he chewed. Elizabeth walked then across the square to a bench, and eased herself down on it. Her feet were paining her something awful. They had been sat on the bench, Seamus swinging his legs as he devoured the peach.

“People like you usually aren’t as kind? Mr Pemble’s taken the strap to me more than once for stealin’.” Seamus told her.

“Has _he?”_ Elizabeth asked in a stiff, unapprovingly tone. Looking across the market, to see said man shuffling back and forth behind his meat counter. Wedged tight between cold, dead carcasses. As she looked across, he sent her a scowl across the market crowds, and slammed his cleaver through a leg of lamb.

“He doesn’t like it when I go to the Golden Oak tavern to swipe drunk men’s wallets…” Seamus admitted.

Elizabeth smiled widely, formulating a plan in her head. That glimmer of strategy and wiliness was back in her eyes.

“Tell me, Are you _much good_ at pocket-picking? I do believe if Mr. Pemble hadn’t caught you, you’d have _had_ my sixpence.” Elizabeth asks.

“I’m… _ok_. I suppose.” Seamus spoke with a shrug.

“Is Mr. Pemble, judging by the way you seem to know him, _watching_ after you?” She enquires.

“You ask _a lot_ of questions…” Seamus assessed while chewing.

“Mr. Pemble says that women _ask too many_ questions because of their feminine nonsense should be _beaten_. _And_ he says that they should accept a clip around the ear daily, as a dose of common sense from their husbands – the _only people_ with brains.” Seamus spoke, obviously mimicking the butcher’s words.

 _“Hmm_.” Elizabeth smiled, raising her brows, with a nod.

“I take it there _isn’t a Mrs_. Pemble? _Is there?_ ” She asked. Seamus shook his head for a no.

“ _Yes. Why does that not surprise me._ ” Elizabeth hushed rhetorically under her breath. Smiling across to Seamus afterwards.

“So, Mr. _Pemble took_ you in? _Did he?_ Gave you _food?_ A place _to sleep?”_ She queried.

“He let’s me sleep in the back room of his shop, near the boiler. I get something to eat every now and then, if I’ve been _good._ ” He told her. “I haven’t eaten for three days, because I took something from a drunk man the other night, in Kingwood Passage across town where all the taverns are. That’s where I find the best pickings." He spoke slowly, smiling a little, boasting of his thievery.

 _Three days,_ she thought, _three days without food. Living next to a boiler, with a man who thinks punishment and beatings should be a regular occurrence._

“ _Listen_. I think, you could be of _great use_ to me…” She began.

“In return for your many _numerous services,_ I will help you get away from the, colourful, Mr Pemble, and you can come and live near me, on Chatsworth farm. If you agree to this favour, you’ll get three hot meals in a day, some new clothes, and access to a bath, a warm pace to sleep, and a chance to earn a fair wage. _What_ do you _think?”_ She asked.

Seamus smiled, looking up at her like he very much liked the sound of what she was offering.

“What is the favour?” He asked.

“Why Seamus, My dear…” Elizabeth beamed, that cunning gleam back in her eye.

“I need something _stolen_.” She grinned.

 

~

 

 

The foul weather that had been brewing all morning overhead had finally broken into a rainstorm. Elizabeth had been walking for ten minutes by the time rain started to patter down, and by that point it was too far to turn back to Castleton to find shelter. By the time it was thundering down, with wickedly hard raindrops pelting painfully against her skin, there’s nothing she could do but trudge on toward home. Which was a _good twenty_ minute walk away yet.

She sighed and looked up towards the heavens, _someone up there must hate me, she thinks_.

Her skirts were wet, and heavy. Velvet was unfairly absorbent, taking on every drop. And she didn’t even want to _think_ about how _ruined_ the silk skirts would be near her hem. Encrusted in mud, and sodden with puddle water. Her arms ached from holding her skirts up so they didn’t drag in the mud of the track she was walking down. She skipped over what looked like a particularly deep puddle. Soldiering on. A particularly brutal flash of thunder and a flash of lightning made her jump, which caused her to leap back, her feet landing squarely in the huge, deep puddle she just took the trouble to avoid.

She grit her teeth. Again she looked to the heavens, and she didn’t bother restraining her speech this time. There was no one else who was stupid enough to venture out in this weather, to hear her. 

“I don’t know why _you’re bothering_. I can’t possibly get _any wetter.”_ She mumbles up to the skies in a miserable mumble.

She stepped out of it, shaking off her skirts, and her now cold and soggy feet. Her hair do, which had been coiffed perfectly earlier, now had straggled, and was beginning to stick tendrils to her neck. Her hat was drenched, and every time she moved her head, new trickles of cold water found their way down her collar, sliding down her back making her shiver.

She unstuck hair from her face as she clambered over a sty in the fence, thinking that if her husband caught her doing this, he’d be likely to strangle her for her stupidity when she was heavy with child, though she managed to get over easily, her skirts snagged on a splinter in the fence. And when she pulled her skirts, she heard a shrieking tear in the fabric. She growled aloud in frustration. _“Today, of all bloody days.”_ She groaned, her voice no more than a grumble.

She made her way across the meadow, kicking her striding way through the grass as she went, getting more water, and muck on her skirts. Her hat kept slipping over her eyes, so she tore the damn thing off. Clutching it in her hands, her heeled boots kept on getting stuck in the mud and undergrowth.

 _“Sodding Hell_ …” She growled. Feeling cold now, the soggy misery of being swathed in cold, wet clothes making her mood sour.

She continued her slow pace, struggling through the meadow, before a low thrashing sound from behind her caught her attention. The wild grasses and flowers of the meadow whipped faster and faster, until she turned and saw someone bounding through the knee height grass to get to her. The noise of the storm not letting her hear as her name was being called by this mystery man.

Elizabeth squinted, pushing sticky curls of hair out of her eyes, and through the pouring wind and rain, she narrows her eyes, holding her hand over her eyes as she tried to assess who the male figure heading towards her was.

“ _Hugh?”_ She shouted in alarm as she saw him get closer.

He himself was only dressed in a soggy beige overcoat, a thin white shirt, which was already dripping, his hair was plastered to his head, and rivulets of water were running off over his chin. He had black breeched and boots on, and they too were splattered with rain.

“I’ve been calling you. I saw you pass…” He explained, panting, she looked across the meadow, through the sheets of rain, to see that where she stood was directly opposite the vicarage, in plain view of every window. 

"Hard to mistake that infamous red hair for another woman." He offered. 

“ _Oh…”_ She sighed. “I’m _sorry, I…”_ She began, but the thunder overhead cut her off. Waving her soggy mush of a hat around in her hands.

“Well, _I just wondered_ , won’t you come inside? Atleast, until the rain passes…” He offers. Blinking water out of his cerulean-jade eyes.

Elizabeth’s mouth gaped.

 _“Oh, no!_ I shouldn’t want _to bother_ you. I’ll be ok, home isn’t _too far, and I_ -…”

She started. She looked up at the unrelenting chowder grey sky, and promiscuous clouds, and then back to Hugh who stood looking at her earnestly. Soaked to the skin. He had ventured out in this storm, and ran across a meadow to offer her shelter in the midst of a storm.

“Elizabeth, If I let you continue on walking, you’ll be riddled with pneumonia by the time you reach Chatsworth’s front door. Please, not even for _me_ , not _even entirely_ for you. For that baby, consider it? _You’re with child_ , _please, I have_ to _insist…”_ He pleads with her.

Elizabeth smiled at him. He did have a very fair point. She smiles.

“Thankyou.” Hugh smiles, leaning over to offer her his arm, feeling she was trembling with cold.

“It should be me _who’s_ thanking you.” Elizabeth points out.

Hugh smiled warmly at her through the pouring rain.

“Thank you for being the first person to talk to me in a week.” He adds.

“My _pleasure_.” She follows, as the both of them briskly escaped out of the rain, back to the shelter of the vicarage.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas, when he was very young, had a very strong lisp. He pronounced 'Iris' as 'Iwis' more often than not. Or, as he called her 'Irie' it turned into, 'Iwie.' Iris doesn't tease him about it as often as she probably could get away with.


	98. The Vicarage, Life Histories, and the Eye of the Storm...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's friggin long! Hope you're sitting comfortably!

 

 

~

 

Elizabeth and Hugh practically ran, arm in arm, across the vicarage yard, through the windy rain that was battering and buffeting them around, Elizabeth smiled seeing the chickens, and Sidney taking refuge under the overhang of the stable perched on the far side of the garden. The hens were nestled in the hay, watching the rain fall, and Sidney was loudly honking, shaking his wings in disdain at having gotten his snowy feathers wet.

Hugh swept open the door for Elizabeth, holding it open for her to stumble through out of the ice cold, pelting rain that seemed to be coming down harder in vengeance. As if knowing she and Hugh were shortly to escape it. Trees nearby were tossed wildly from side to side, and the thunder that didn’t seem to be ceasing angrily stomped at the ground with it's sly, bright sibling, lightning following it shortly after. Elizabeth shook off the worst of the water and let it naturally drip off her as she stood on the doormat, mouth gaped wide at the sheer bitterness of the cold compared to the warm little cottage doorway she now stood in. She felt Hugh move close behind her, latching the door shut, ignoring and letting the storm fuss and throw its tantrum outside.

He panted, doing the same thing as her, letting the worst of the water shed itself on his doormat. Running off in trickles down from his hair, and his sleeves. Elizabeth was much the same, her entire body was soaked through, and now the numbing cold was setting it, the heat of the vicarage pricking like pins at her icy fingertips. Elizabeth smiled at the four legged inhabitant who came padding towards her, tail wagging, nose sniffling at her wet skirts. She bent down to fuss Casper as he lapped up the attention from the soggy stranger.

“That _reminds me..._ ” Hugh smiles fondly, hanging up the wet folds of his coat by the door. “I _think_  there’s something you’d like to _see_ …”

He grins. Skirting to the coatrack down the entryway, and walking back to link a clean, warm blanket over her shoulders.

“Come in, _please_ , don’t worry about the water. Kitchens the warmest place in the house…” He informs her. He crossed to a little door ahead of them in the kitchen, and opens it, beckoning her through. She walks gingerly through the cosy little kitchen, feeling the soothing warm air from the roaring fire caress her goose pimpled skin as she passed it. She peered into the scullery, the small windowless room, flanked with shelves, and she stood near Hugh by the door. On seeing the sight that greeted her, her face broke out into a wide, pleased grin as she sighed in happiness.

His other rusty red setter, Effie, was curled up in her basket, with several smaller bundles of copper brown fur wriggling at her side, small little muffled squeaks filled the room and the mother of them all wagged her tail, staying sat on her basket, looking very proud, and nurturing toward her puppies, licking the fur of the littlest bundle that was nearest her.

“Oh, they’re _beautiful…_ ” Elizabeth whispered softly, smiling as she turned back to Hugh. Who looked upon the sight with fondness, but she could detect a slight dejection flicker across his eyes.

“ _What_ is it?” She enquires.

“Well. Seeing’s as I’ll be _leaving_ Derbyshire soon, I’ll likely have to sell most of the pups before I go.” He told her. “And I don’t know where I’m going too next…” He informed her.

Elizabeth looked about her, there were trunks and crates piled one side of the kitchen. And most surfaces looked sparse to her eye now she noticed it. No photo frames lined the mantel above the stone fireplace, with no faces of the Everett family smiling back at her. No vase held flowers in the alcove of the windowsill like it usually did. There were barely any pots and utensils by the stove. There only remained two armchairs pulled close by the fire, facing it, of which had two white dust sheets thrown over them.

She turned to him.

“You should know, Thomas and I aren’t exactly on _excellent_ terms as of late, but, I do _not_ think he has _yet_ written a letter of dismissal...” She spoke slowly with an innocent tone. Blindly hoping, angling, to keep him here a little longer.

“You’re _very kind_.” He hushed in a heartfelt voice. His voice a husk. “But I would rather walk out early with what is left of my dignity, than stay and see my replacement take over a place and profession that I so _very, dearly_ love.” He told her. “I know that sounds _spineless,_ and cowardly…” He winced.

Elizabeth shook her head, sadly. “On the contrary…” She protested. He would rather go out with a spark, than to let himself fade away.

She stood, hugging her arms across herself, hating the miserable silence that now lay thick in the air like another guest was stood in the kitchen with them. The horrible, unchangeable mood that had come about because she knew unless she tried really, _really_ hard to change the situation, that soon, or if _she failed_ in her task, she would be mourning the loss of a _dear_ friend. It was a depressing feeling that clawed its way up her throat, and put tears in her eyes. Hugh was a _good_ man, he _did not_ deserve such misery and ignominy heaped on him like this. Especially not as it was driving him away from his from a place that had _finally_ felt like home to him.

“Have you accepted another position?” Elizabeth didn’t want to ask, but she had too.

“I’ve considered a cleric’s position abroad, in Africa. There are hundreds of missionary’s there that need my help. Or, there were plenty of city parishes looking for employees, feeding the poor, comforting the dying. One in Edinburgh, one in Lambeth. Plenty of choice. So the livestock might have to be sold too, if I go to a city, little space for two dogs, five chickens and a belligerent duck. So Muffin, Bumpkin, Queenie, Mrs. Cluckers McFeathington, Twinkle, and Sidney may have find _new_ homes _too_.” He offers sadly.

Elizabeth found herself hating how both posts were opposite ends of the country, but then she looked heartened. “You _remembered_ all their names?” She smiles in mirth.

“Judith named them, and I _daren’t_ forget _anything_ her majesty tells me to do.” He smiled. But he didn’t look as happy as he would have, his smile looked tainted. Tainted with sadness so deep he couldn’t let himself be free from it. He met her eyes and sighed glumly, his smile still vaguely present. But she couldn’t escape the misery in his eyes. It was a look that Elizabeth knew meant he was _deeply missing someone_.

“She misses you too, you know. We all do. Edith stopped reading her religion section. It reminds her too fondly of you. Even Judith has been unusually quiet. And _Iris…_ ” She stopped herself shirt when his eyes flickered up to find hers.

“They’ll be better off without _me, Elizabeth_.” He told her gently.

“But you know _the real nature_ of the man she is now _engaged too_.” Elizabeth spoke in a hush.

Hugh sighed. Clearing his throat. Diverting the subject. 

“We should, probably _change_. No matter how many layers I give you, I don’t think you’ll _truly_ warm up unless you change into something drier… If _that isn’t_ too presumptuous?” He diagnosed. Remembering he was speaking to a member of the gentry.

Elizabeth laughed, her teeth chattering now. “Not at all. In fact, I think that is a very sensible idea.” She smiles.

“There’s an old family chest upstairs, I think one of Margaret’s dresses is still inside it. You look _roughly_  a similar build.” He smiles. “Though I can’t be positive the colour will suit _your_ pallor.” He smirks.

“Beggars _can’t be_ choosers...” Elizabeth sighs smiling back.

Hugh fetches her the gown in question, which was a mint green colour, and turns out to fit quite snugly when she slips it on, luckily her slip stayed mostly dry, so she slides the foreign gown on over her head, and see’s that it falls just to her ankles. Her stockings were sodden, so she rolls them off, and replaces them with woollen socks he had gifted her, feeling that her feet were like ten icicles. Five on each foot.

Hugh had also given her a wash jug of warm water which she used to wash the rainwater out of her hair, lathering it with a simple soap that smelt of wild oats and French lavender. Feeling far warmer, and refreshed towelling off her thick red curls when she re-joined Hugh from the quaint washroom upstairs. Her soggy clothes folded over one arm, which he took from her as she re-entered the room, hanging them on the drying rack placed in front of the roaring open fire. He gestured her to a seat, and she saw he had lit candles in all the windowsills, providing some light, along with the amber fire. The wooden blinds were pulled shut, and rain could still be heard rattling against the roof tiles above. As well as the wind wailing to get in at the windows.

Elizabeth relaxed into the armchair, Hugh having thrown the dust sheets off. She gratefully gravitated towards the wonderful heat radiating from the fire grate. The sensation to her fingertips and her toes gradually returning. Hugh flopped opposite down across from her on his own red velvet armchair. There was a small side table by his side, on which she could see a steaming pot of tea and two fine bone china cups and saucers. She smiled gratefully as he offered her tea, and she curled the blanket she was sat on around her body. Her hair mostly dry, still a touch damp. It would be tight curls before long, she knew, drying naturally.

Hugh too had dried himself off she could see. His rusty brown hair was ruffled and stuck up at odd angles, having been combed with his hands to smooth back from his head. He had redressed in a thicker cotton shirt, a different pair of black breeches with his braces looped down by his hips, and thick socks on his feet.

“Pardon my brashness in asking, but is the dress of a satisfactory _size?_ ” He asked, seeing that it only sat an inch or two higher on her than it would have on Margaret. The Duchess being a _tad_ taller than his sister, but he could see it gaped a little at the chest.

“It’s perfectly suitable.” She smiles. “Thankyou. It’s nice to feel the sensations _returning_ to my extremities…” She beams with a chuckle as he pours and hands her a saucer of tea. She rests it in her lap, cradling and savouring the warmth.

“I know what you mean.” He smirked. “I have just begun to feel like I _have feet_ again.” He offers. Scratching Casper behind the ears as the dog sloped his chin to rest on his masters knee. Sipping his tea, before setting it down.

“I hope this storm passes soon. They’ll be wondering _what on earth_ has happened to me back at Chatsworth.” Elizabeth smiled, holding her saucer up to sip her tea. The warmth started to prick painfully at her fingertips. She adored the lush sensation of the hot tea filling her belly with warmth.

“Of course…” Hugh agrees. Patting Casper on the head. The dogs tail still madly wagging.

 _Not that Thomas would care…_ Elizabeth finds herself thinking, before she chided herself for being unfair. There was silence as both Reverend and Duchess drained their teacups. The both of them adoring the warmth it settled low in their bellies.

“Another?” Hugh asked, pointing to the teacup. Elizabeth grinned a yes. Outrunning a storm was thirsty work. She watched him pour her a second cup first, and when he hands it to her

“Can I ask, if it isn’t considered, _prying…_ ” He begins.

Elizabeth cradles her cup again. “Of course.” She answers.

“You and Thomas _truly_ haven’t _reconciled_ since the ball?” He asks. Hearing that behaviour come from a couple as devoted as the Duke and Duchess was cause for intrigue and concern.

Elizabeth smiled to try and hide her pain. But she knew she couldn’t bluff. Not from so close friend, such as he.

“We, _clashed tempers_. The _curse_ of being two strong willed people I suppose. I wouldn’t listen to his trying to tell me what happened, it _hurt too much._ I couldn’t process that my devoted, adoring, loving husband would let a contemptible debutante _string herself_ round his neck. I didn’t want to even, _consider it._ I didn’t want to believe that the man I loved more dearly than anything I’ve ever known could let himself get kissed by another woman. I was, reeling from a _terrible_ incident, having to deal with the pressures of organising the ball all by myself, running the staff, dealing with the snide remarks from his _foul_ mother and her harpies, and the burdens and pain of carrying _his_ child, I guess, for me, it- _it_ was the straw that _broke_ the camel’s back seeing Anabelle kiss him.” She admitted.

Hugh took everything in, leant back, his teacup resting on his solid knee, his jade eyes, brightened by the firelight watching her intently, reverently, listening to her rant from the heart. Pouring out things that she had kept bottled up all to herself and not let slip to anyone. Everyone needed a sympathetic ear sometimes, _even Duchesses._

“Is that _irrational_ of me do you think?” She asked worriedly. Fearing what he thought of her. “I _drove him away_. I didn’t _intend_ too. _God, I didn’t intend to…”_ She blurted out, before a look of concern and worry flashed across her eyes, she touched her fingers to her lips. Remembering who she was sat opposite.

“oh, _I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean-”_

She trailed off. Hugh chuckled warmly at her. Slowly shutting his eyes, before opening them again as a held up two fingers to show he wasn’t offended. He was the most relaxed cleric she had encountered. Reverend Potter back on Montague Street would rap anyone’s knuckles sharply with _his prayer book_ if _anyone_ spoke in detriment of the good lord.

 _“He’s listening_ in too _. Don’t worry_. _It’s very convenient_ … he’s a _handy_ listener. I’ve spoken _many a trouble_  of mine to awaiting ears such as his. Whether you _do, or do not_ believe in a higher power, everyone I think, at some point in their life has _openly prayed_ their quandaries to the skies above. Even if we do, or do not think someone can hear it, or is listening. _It’s… soothing_ to any troubled soul.” He explained.

Elizabeth knew exactly what he meant. She hadn’t really spoken to anyone about it. And even letting _a small_ rant out, it now felt _a little better._ She felt cleansed of some of the angst that had been brewing inside her for days.

“Anyway, you were saying about if you think it was irrational of you, to drive Thomas away _after,_ I presume, you saw him and Anabelle?” He asked.

She nodded glumly. Sipping her tea.

“No. I _don’t think_ it’s irrational. Not in the least. As you said, you and Thomas both have _very strong_ tempers. That much is clear, but I don’t think you should feel guilty for taking the time to process it. You and Thomas are, by law and in the eyes of god, _yes_ , man and wife. But that doesn’t mean you will _forever see eye-to-eye._ Or, even, _communicate_ with each other in times like this. Men and women, Elizabeth, _think_ differently. _React_ differently, _feel_ differently. I think, whatever happened, was the way you just had to deal with the shock of it in your _own_ way. And there’s _no apology_ to be made for being _oneself._ ” He informed her. “And shock is capable of making us do, strange, _phenomenal_ things.” He adds.

“Well. Being myself is _one thing_ I can never be accused of not doing _incredibly well_.” She informed him.

“The one thing that stumped me, though. Was _not knowing_ how to _act._ _All my life_ , I’ve been taught how to walk, eat, dress, talk and behave. But _that night_ , was the first time in all my life where I _didn’t_ know _how_ to act. I had no one to guide me through what to do. It felt foreign. I _didn’t know_ what to do, _how to be_ …” She confessed, tears sparkling in her eyes.

Hugh gave her a sympathetic look.

“ _You handled it_ , it’s _a gut_ response with things like that. Believe me, _I know….”_ He spoke in a hush that a small voice was soaked in pain.

Elizabeth caught his eyes, and her brow creased. He caught her inaudible question, her pale, fine boned, lovely face was _easier_ to read than _a book._

“My wife.” He offered.

Elizabeth sunk back in her chair, shocked.

“I’m _so sorry_.” She spoke in a low, barely heard tone. Though she couldn’t deny she was intrigued. She had seen the indent of a long since lost wedding ring on his left hand. Edith had explained what she had overheard between him and Audley.

“Edith?” He asked.

Elizabeth made an ashamed face. She nodded.

“It’s alright. I’m _not angry_ about it. I didn’t tell _the Earl_ our conversation had an _eavesdropper._ ” He informed her kindly.

“How did you know?” She asked, “Edith said she ran away.” She told.

“The book of collected religious essays by Florian Lynch left in the chapels porch was my _biggest_ giveaway.” He smiled.

“She said the Earl seemed to take _pleasure_ out of mocking you…” Elizabeth seethed. Shaking her head in despise of the man.

“Taking pleasure out of my misery is actually fairly _mild for him.”_ Hugh informed.

Elizabeth looked curious at hearing this.

“I suppose, I can’t explain _as such_ about him, or paint the picture of his dark character, without telling you the _whole story_ …” He informed.

Elizabeth relaxed back into her chair.

“ _Indulge me,_ if you’d _care_ too.” Elizabeth asked. “I’m trying _so hard_ to find fault in him and stop him marrying Iris. If you give me the truth, I can _promise_ you it will _not be_ handled poorly.” She persuaded. Though he would have told her anyway.

“I know you well enough, Mrs Kenworthy. I’d entrust you with my _very life._ ” He smiled.

Hugh looked at her for a long second, there was no one on earth he trusted more, perhaps Margaret. But in his brief time here, he had come to hold her in regard as one of the most level-headed, determined and trustworthy people he’s ever met. She was incorrupt to his eyes. Which was rare. His life seemed populated by people who were entirely the opposite. Lit by the fires light, those blue eyes of hers were incontestably kind in their gaze, but not pitying him. And though it killed him to think of Iris marrying the brute, he had been shouldering the truth for his whole life without being at liberty to speak of it to a single living creature. 

Now seemed as good a time as any. 

“Me and the Earl of Audley, have known each other, since we _were boys_. My father, was also a Reverend, his parish was on The Earl of Audley’s land, it abutted the estate. My father, and His father, were very close acquaintances. His mother died in childbirth, you see, so his father only had _one_ son, him, and _no_ other siblings or close relations.  And so he, I, and Margaret naturally, were friends as young children…” He paused to sigh.

“…It became clearer and clearer as we all got older, that we were shaping into two incredibly different boys. I put all stock and value in my education, and attended school, and I dare say excelled in my studies, whereas Audley _floundered_. He became, involved with the wrong sort of people as a teen, he bullied his classmates in the schoolyard, threw rocks, tripped people up, spat and snarled at teachers knowing they wouldn’t _dare punish_ the _Earls_ son. He hardly had any guidance from his father, which was understandable, he was a very sick man, and Audley grew, more and more _wild_ into his manhood. A bully, to all those who knew him. His father you see, he suffered from extreme arthritis, some days could _barely move_ from his armchair. He was a very genial, pleasant old man. So _very temperate_. _Very, unlike_ the man _his son_ was becoming.” He explained.

“By the time we both reached adulthood, we barely spoke. I saw more of his father, than I did him. I was the verger at my father’s church, and often I would go to the house to sit and read sermons with the old fellow. He enjoyed the company. He greatly missed his wife, and his son barely gave him the time of day. By this point he was off for first year at Eton, only came home when _ran out of money_. Ran into all sorts of trouble with debtors, and landlords, he drank far too _much_ , and cared far too _little._ He enjoyed cards, and gaming, and the company of… _less than reputable women_. But, his father, he loved his son, _very dearly._ Couldn’t see _the monster_ he was becoming. Anything that his son wanted, _he got_. Or else he threw furniture, smashed glasses, and pinched the family silver. He abused his father’s powerlessness to extort _money_ out of the dear old man. He was….a _hurricane_ in a glass jar. He was incontrollable. _Anyway…”_ He digressed, coming back to the main focus of the story, but having perfectly illustrated Audley’s twisted, foul character.

“When we were younger, I had, the job as Verger to my father’s chapel as a boy of eighteen. Margaret, though she attended church, didn’t want to work in one. She was only fifteen at the time, she sought a job elsewhere, and found it. Audley’s father, kindly offered her a job as a housemaid in the main house. She adored it. She liked the work, the pay was decent, and she could walk to and from work on her own. Anyway, by this point, Audley the younger was attending Eton, mingling with all the rich, privileged males who saw the world as their personal, private stomping ground. He invited several of them back for a house party, his father had travelled into the next county for a week to attend an old friend’s wedding… He and his friends had run of the house, and, after the cook, and the butler went home one night. Margaret had stayed because…” His voice broke and Elizabeth could see he was holding back tears, his voice thick with grief.

“…Because she said she wanted to make sure the silver was _thoroughly polished._ ” He almost chuckled poignantly with tears in his eyes.

“I’ve _never_ forgiven myself for letting her go to that house _alone_ , that night. I’ve regretted watching her walk away, an unspoilt girl, to go and help in those kitchens. I’ve regretted not stopping her going that night, _my whole life_.” He cried, sparkling tears malforming his eyes.

Elizabeth almost didn’t want to hear what atrocity came next.

“She went… up into the main house, to gather any glasses that they’d use to drink god knows how much, of god knows what. And, he _cornered_ her. He, _abused_ her, _and…”_ He was almost unable to speak. He closed his eyes, and tears streamed out.

“He _raped_ Margaret that night.”

He finally bit out, one tear sliding down his cheek. Elizabeth was close to crying herself. Her mouth agape. Unable to believe what she was hearing.

“His, vile friends bet him he couldn’t _‘bed’_ the next girl he saw. He took it far too _literally. She was fifteen years old.”_ He cried in vain.

“I knew, all those years, he’d taken a shine to her. She had _always_ rebuffed him. But, the Earl’s son is not used to being denied things he _so desperately_ wants.” He added. 

“She ran home that night and came upon me in the chapel, in the dark, clothes torn, beaten, bleeding and bruised. I held her for _two hours_ whilst she sobbed in my arms. I couldn’t fathom what he had done. He had used, and _hurt her,_ and, _how I begged_ for forgiveness from the lord that night, because, I had such vile thoughts. _I asked for forgiveness because I found I nearly indulged them._ I wanted to go up to that house and beat him to within an inch of his life, as he had done to her. He’d fractured her collarbone, broken her arm, bruised her skin, hit her…” He trailed off.

“But _worse than all_ that still…” He sighed.

“What can _be worse_ than that?” Elizabeth asked in a whimper _. Poor Margaret_.

“Robert is _not_ Peter’s father.”

Hugh explained stiffly. ”The Earl of Audley, however, _is.”_

Elizabeth went as white as a sheet, and completely still. Her head reeling from the truth being offloaded onto her. The fact that Audley had fathered an illegitimate child, raped a young girl, alongside her housemaid. He was one of the foulest creatures she had ever known. And the fact he had practically walked into an engagement with Iris made her _physically sick._

“That’s _despicable._ ” She whispered. “To have such a horror happen to a _fifteen_ year old girl.” She added in disbelief.

“We couldn’t even _bring a charge_ against him.” Hugh told her.

 _“I don’t understand_. Couldn’t you go to _the police?”_ She shrilled in shock.

Hugh shook his head.

“There was _no proof_. Margaret was _too scared_ to tell the police. Audley beat her severely. She couldn’t _prove_ it was him who assaulted her. And a mere Reverend's family bringing charges against an _Earl’s son?_ We’d have _been laughed_ right out of court.”

Elizabeth couldn’t believe her ears. That Audley had gone unscathed for all his crimes.

“Margaret was with his child. But, there was a small mercy, a silver lining, perhaps. She had briefly courted a wealthy man, called Robert McMurray, and, as luck would have it, he proposed to her not three weeks after the incident. She lied and told him she got the bruises by tripping and falling down the chapel’s bell tower stairs. They married, she was a young bride, and he took her away, _far away_ from Audley, up north to Cumbria, to live with him. She managed to convince him the child was _his_. Conceived on their wedding night.” He explained.

“Anyway. Margaret, went away, and my mother, my father and I, couldn’t bring ourselves to tell the Earl what his son had done. He was _so kind_ to us, I couldn’t repay him by letting him know what foulness his son had committed. It would have _broken his heart._ We simply told him Margaret had married and moved away. Then, eight months later, she birthed Peter. Named him after my grandfather. I stayed in Hampshire. Near Audley, and every time I saw him after that, he’d sneer, and ask me how my sister was. I could only answer that she was _happily married_ , and safely ensconced far _far_ away from Hampshire with a healthy baby boy and a husband who she loved dearly. _Anyway,_ after Eton, Rupert flounced off to London, his father said _, lavishly_ installed in a townhouse in Mayfair, a bachelor about town, the heir of the Audley fortune, I shudder to think what he did to pass the time in London, though he’d come home every now and then for _more money_ , or for the shooting season.”

“We seemed to _heal_ , life went on, as it does, I took over my father’s chapel after he retired, and, _then_ , I met Catherine.” It was the first time in his life that his eyes lit up. There was no doubting that he loved his wife.

“She...- _she_ worked at the dressmakers in town, we bumped into each other one Sunday at church. And, started seeing more of each other, we courted, and then I asked her if she would marry me.” He smiled in fond memory, his hand absentmindedly rubbing his empty ring finger.

“What was she like?” Elizabeth asked with a smile at seeing him so happy at the mere memory of her.

“She had… hair the colour of honey. And blue eyes that _could paralyse_ a man from _one look_. She was sweet, passionate. She could be so very _, timid._ And then fiery the next minute. She was a whirlwind of laughter, and cheekiness. I adored her. I was completely _besotted._ Everyone always used to say she was the _prettiest_ girl in all of Hampshire. Sweetest temper too.” He beamed.

“We were happily married, though I always thought she was never _fully_ satisfied. People said she was too _wild_ to be a Reverends wife. I didn't want to believe it. She did grow bored. But, _lord, I loved her._ And she seemed _very happy_ with me, at the chapel. _”_

“When the war broke out, I wanted to help. Obviously, I couldn’t be a soldier. So I decided that for all those poor souls on the battlefield, I could give them _some_ peace of mind, and with that, I decided I would sign up to be a chaplain. And, Catherine lost sleep for _a week_ worrying about me going off. She tried to convince me to stay, we argued about it, if I can remember correctly. But, it was too late to not go. I was shipped off into battle. Conditions truly were, beyond words. I _prayed_ every night and day that I would make it back to her alive. Kept her portrait in the signed bible she had gifted me with. During my time there, though. I learnt that Audley had signed up too. He was instantly awarded the station as an officer. Luckily, _we didn’t meet_ on the continent. Which was a _small mercy_ , Atleast.” He spoke, his tone was that of a thankful man.

“One day, there was a sudden influx of soldiers, maybe thirty or so, all _very badly_ wounded, I did what I could, but they dropped like flies. They had been led foolishly right into the point of line in battle that was strong, and very well defended, _their officer,_ had made a miscalculation, and denied orders from _top brass_ to charge the enemy line where he led them. They were _cut to shreds_ in the teeth of canon and musket blast. Nothing _but sabres_ to defend themselves with. It’s almost _laughable_ , sending men to certain death, kites in a hurricane they were. I will _never_ , so long as I live, forget the name and faces of every poor man’s hand I held as they died. Some died crying, some calling for their mothers, their wives. Some silently slipped away. Death was a different reaction to every man. I asked the ones lucky enough to live where their officer who led them into certain death was, _none_ of them knew. Many hours later, near dawn, word came that their officer, had turned and fled from the battlefield, abandoning his troops _, to die_.

“Audley.” Elizabeth spoke with pain.

Hugh nodded.

“A coward, a rapist, and a deserter…” He explained.

“The one saving grace, was that, He returned home after abandoning his post. Blagged his way home, faking an injury to be awarded home release. When he got back, he tried to convince his father that he’d gotten off lightly, killed thousands of the enemy, returned to England a hero. When, as it turns out, his father, who by this point was very weak, had received a letter, personally written by the Minister of War, to the Earl, stating his son was now branded as a coward, and was shortly to be imprisoned and shot. He’d been caught out by his father, who finally saw him for the liar, and cad that he was. And, he informed his son, that because of this, he had changed his will. Audley was _no longer_ the heir. The house and grounds would go to a distant cousin, the title would die with him, and the fortune would be left, to the _only person_ who’d ever been like a true son to him.”

“ _Who?”_ Elizabeth asked, on the edge of her seat, anxious to know.

 _“Me.”_ Hugh informed her.

Elizabeth was _speechless_. Though for the first time in a _good_ way. 

“Audley’s father passed away not long after. _From the shame_ , I _imagine_. Rupert didn’t even _attend_ the funeral.” He explained. “The _only_ close family he had in the world…” He voiced.

“Of course, The Earl had decreed that it could be spent however I wished. So, I divided it up many years ago. Enough to keep my mother and father wealthy all their lives. A fair amount of Margaret and her husband, though Robert makes _more than enough_ to keep them secure. I had what was left, invested, safe in the bank. I’m, _quite, hugely, rich_ on my own stead because of it. And I _thank the lord_ that that man could finally see _who_ his son was. I would have hated for him to have gone to his grave thinking well of his son. Though it would have been a comfort… I can’t deny it was a well-deserved, _long-time-coming_ penance. Audley was _penniless, a pauper._ He lost the lavish townhouse, and the title, and all the honour that went with it.” He divulged.

“Serves him right.” Elizabeth “Death and torture would be _an indulgence_ for him.” She seethed.

“I quite agree.” Hugh revealed

“…I think that was why, he did what he did next… It was revenge for me getting his money.” He stated.

“Is there _no end_ to the man’s wretchedness?” Elizabeth asked.

“Apparently _not_. To torture me even more, he decided to then go and help himself to _my Catherine_.” He told, sniffing back his tears.

“I got _a letter_ , out when I was on the continent. From Catherine, explaining she had met the love of her life, she was leaving me, and eloping with him. Stating that _, I-_ I was boring, and paid more _attention_ to my parishioners and prayer books than I did _to her._ She said there were _cracks_ in our marriage that had turned _into canyons_ when I went away to war, not listening to her pleas telling me not to go. She explained that she _didn’t want_ to be the vicar’s wife, and I should find someone drearier, _lacklustre_ , and suited to being ignored.” He parroted. Letting Elizabeth know that he was _quoting directly_ from the painful letter he had received all those years ago. Unable to forget the hurt it had caused, losing a wife he was _so devoted_ too. Especially to lose her to such a villain.

“I returned home after a horrific war, to an empty home. By this point, I think he and Catherine were living in the slums in London, Up Bethnal Green way. I carried on as best as I could on father’s parish for a couple of years, before I decided to leave my home county, and go find a job elsewhere. When I got to my post in Sussex, I bumped into him again, he _had split_ from Catherine. And was ruining my name by committing atrocities, and as I was not yet known in that county, he went there ahead of me, Catherine told him before they split that’s where I was heading, he gave my name as his own, and told them he was their new Reverend. Drank himself silly, and _that’s_ where the newspaper clipping you received was from.” He informed her. “By the time I got there, there was _little_ I could do to rectify his behaviour.”

Elizabeth was silent, unable to comprehend how much misery the Earl had put this man through. _He had sent Hugh to hell and back._

“I then got a letter from her, my wife, stating she didn’t _have long left_. She had consumption. Audley had abandoned her to die in a pauper’s hospital, and taken what _little money_ she had, and went off to ruin me, _once again._ I’m thankful she died of her illness before she could die of a broken heart.”

“I moved back to Hampshire not long after for a month or two before taking this job. Audley had finally stopped using me as his favourite bullying victim. He’d found a new poor source of money to latch onto and drain dry. His latest ploy has him back in the money, deceiving a powerful Marquis that he saved his son in the war. I think it was a man in his regiment, who gave him a token of luck. When he found himself down and out, I heard that he presented himself to the man, said he had died in his company. When in reality, he lived out the remainder of the war, penniless in Spain, as I understand it.” He finished.

“And _that_ madam, is my _true_ full, _sad,_ account of all I know about the Earl of Audley.” He told.

“How has he _gone so unscathed_ for _so_ long? Rape, debt, bastardry, and desertion, and yet he escaes without so much as a _scratch? How can that be? All_ the poor, innocent people _he’s hurt_ , has no one stood up to him?”

“His current protector has something to do with that. _His whole life_ Audley has taken _precise care_ to place _himself first,_ and hide behind powerful people with influence, and money. He _struck gold_ with his current _‘protector’_ who has shielded him from censure of his superiors for years. He made the war council give up the hunt for his head, he’s swayed away police, debtors, paid off any disgruntled folk who come to his door wanting to get revenge of the man. He’s, _untouchable_ , so he likes to boast, as long as the old fool thinks Audley brought his son’s token of luck back home, to fulfil his dying wish.” Hugh explained.

 _“Who_ is this guardian who’s so incorruptible? Wealth, power, money, Is it _the Queen?”_ Elizabeth asked, joking, in good humour.

“ _Close enough_. I believe this man went to school with the current prime minister, plays whist with the home secretary, and has personally dined with Queen Victoria…” He informed her.

Elizabeth wracked her brain.

“The Marquis of Renford. Seymour Augustus Winthorpe Nathaniel Isacc Eldom the Third.” Hugh spoke with disdain.

 _“Sawnie...”_ Elizabeth finished with realisation, the name Edith had mentioned with confusion. The Marquis who had more money than _god himself_ , he owned practically all of Lincolnshire, and famously still mourned the loss of his son. Now a widower and with no family left. Audley had clung onto his riches like a leech.

“Sawnie’s his biggest pawn. So long as he is kept defended by him, I can’t touch him. Any allegations I protest at, would be moot. Sawnie’d make them disappear.” Hugh predicted.

A glimmer shone in Elizabeth’s eyes. _This was the exact piece of leverage that could be used against him._

“What if Audley was suddenly  _tarnished_ in Sawnie’s eyes?” She asked Hugh. “What if the Marquis was made to see the truth of all the wrong he’s _caused_ …” She added.

He tilted his head, looking intrigued, cautious, and slightly bewildered.

“What are you plotting, your Ladyship…”

“I’ve been observing him now, trying to think of a way to dissuade him from Iris. It seemed a hopeless venture until now. He’s come to tea, several times, at Chatsworth, and I’ve picked up on something… It could be nothing, but…” She shrugged, her eyes darting back and forth as she thought to herself.

“But,  _what?”_ Hugh encouraged, curiously.

“He always carries a little pocket book with him. Red, leather bound, I know it because there’s only _one_ shop in London that sells that particular book. On Bond Street...” She explained.

“Now, he’s far too _wily_ to confess to anything, but, I’ve noticed he makes regular entries…. Like a diary, and I’m willing to bet, that diary, if shown to Sawnie could perhaps be of _some extreme use.”_ She beamed.

“He could dismiss that it’s not his diary…” Hugh pointed out.

“But a diary is _personal.”_ Elizabeth leered. “And if he’s keeping a diary at _this late age_ , then pattern of habit, he’s likely been doing _it all his life…”_ She calculated.

“Elizabeth…” Hugh smiled, leaning forwards and placing his hand over hers.

“ _I beg you_ , do not think of doing something _brash_ on my behalf. He is a violent, sociopathic man, with no room for morals. He’d harm you badly, and not _lose a wink of sleep_ over it. I know him. And I’d _hate to think_ of him causing you _personal harm_ if he knows you’re onto him. He _is dangerous and not_ to be gone against lightly.”

Elizabeth only seemed to smile all the more

“I never do, anything, _with so lighter_ thought.” She beamed. Her grin the only hopeful thing he had seen in days.

“Then, May the Lord be with you very step of the way, Elizabeth Kenworthy. Whatever dangers it is you’re planning to embark upon.” Hugh spoke, worry present in his face. Even he knew better than to sway her from her goals once she had an idea pop into her brain.

She exhaled a deep breath, biting her lip. Thoughts and calculations whirring inside her head. The very real excitement of halting such a man wedding Iris was positively making her giddy. She placed her teacup and saucer down, noticing now that the rain had died substantially, as had the wind.

“I think the storm has passed, at last…” Hugh predicted. Standing and crossing the kitchen to place the tea try on the side.

“I think you may be right…” Elizabeth grinned looking at the flames as she relaxed in the armchair.

An angry clash on the front door disturbed the comfortable crackling of the fire, the quiet hoot of an owl in the dark trees nearby as night drew in. The noise disjointed Hugh and Elizabeth from the aura of safety that had enclosed on them both. Hugh strode down the hallway and unlatched the door pulling it inwards to see who’d knocked at this time of night.

His face fell as the sight of a stony faced Duke of Chatsworth the other side of it.

“I’ve come for _my_ wife… If _you’ve quite finished_ with her…”

Thomas spat to Hugh. His blue eyes taking in her state of poor dress with the instant, clear insinuation that Elizabeth had come to see the Reverend for an entirely more, _amorous_ , reason.

Elizabeth froze in her place on the armchair. Her husband’s blue eyes pierced straight at her with unrestrained, white hot, anger, and his jaw was pressed so tightly, she was amazed his teeth weren’t dust as of yet.

 _On second thoughts,_ she gulps, _perhaps that storm hadn’t passed by so easily after all._

~

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth has been helping Judith along with the 'play' for this year. Judith hopes, in time, it'll turn into a 'musicale.' Elizabeth is trying as hard as Is physically possible to sway Judith away from the idea. But has happily mentioned the part of the evil dragon/wicked stepmother should be given straight to Caroline.


	99. Adamant Duke's, Shocking Questions, and Sensible Friends...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than I intended, but, there we go...

 

~

 

Not a word was said in the carriage going back to Chatsworth. The silence was so stiff, it was almost suffocating. A lot was being said in said silence. Thomas hadn’t spoken since he first snapped that sentence at the vicarage towards Hugh. Merely turned on his heel and went back to the carriage after giving the poor Reverend the cut direct with a glare that would have made Satan quake in his very own demonic boots. Elizabeth was left with little choice but to gather the soggy pile of her clothes, pull on her boots, and follow after her husband’s rude exit. She does so mustering the best of her dignity, She glides, slowly and silently to the door. Her chin held high. She turns to Hugh, and thanks him most ardently for his rescuing her from the rain. And then she is off, out into the cold, dark night. Climbing into the carriage after her silent, rage filled husband.

They jostled along in silence, until the dam on Thomas’s temper shatters. And all the words he wanted to spew out in anger at her, came tumbling forth, in a torrent, and there was no stopping it once he started.

“I’ve been _worried, frantic_ out of _my head_ , about where you’d been all day, _Elizabeth_.” He seethes, his voice was so acidic, and it sounded very much _like poison_ to her ears. “You leave the house at two, and then the carriage comes back, _empty_ , half of an hour later, Ramsey told me you’d walk home. But then you didn’t. I go out and comb through Castleton. To no avail. And then five hours later Where _do I find you? Cosying_ up by a fireplace to _the rogue Reverend in a dress that is not your own_.” He growled.

Elizabeth was watching his face, his jaw was tight as he snarled the words. Looking straight ahead at the opposite side of the dark carriage. She could see the veins of vitriol in his throat _pouncing_ out of his skin.

“Was there _an insinuation_ buried somewhere in that _snarled comment?”_ She asks with a flat, cool tone. The calm before the storm. The _quieter_ her voice, the more shrill the anger that was _soon_ to follow after.

Thomas sighed, exhaling air in a snort come amused laugh. Though his face still looked feral. His jaw clenched again. If he kept that up, at this rate he’d grind his teeth _away to nothing_.

“You’re _nowhere_ to be found. _For hours_. And when I do locate you, the evidence presented to me leads me to believe you were _undressed_ near another man. Sat, in a candle lit room _holding hands_ with him. _You do the calculations_.” He snaps.

Elizabeth felt the red hot anger inside her gut eroding away at all her rational thoughts.

“What was it? _Revenge?_ Wanted to get _your own back_ on me for _Anabelle? Was that it?”_ He asks, his voice fairly rising to a shout.

“ _How bloody dare you_ …” She hissed back in a low, intolerant voice that was every bit as dangerous as his.

“It all makes _such sense now_ …” He spoke, his voice a taunt as he turned to finally look at her. His blue eyes scanning her face with revulsion. “All those _walks_ to the Parish, with Edith. Making us all go to Sunday mass. The negation of his poor character. Telling me you were taking the carriage to town, as your alibi, and _running_ straight _to him.”_ He yapped, his tone accusatory in her own view of her actions.

“That’s _a pathetic_ accusation.” Elizabeth warned, her voice reaching so low a level, angry tears burned in her eyes, and her blood was beginning to boil. Her teeth were crunching together now as she ground them in revulsion to his own illusory charges

 _“Is it?”_ He yells. “Tell me _what else_ it _could be. **Explain**_ **.** ” He demands. Shouting at her still.

Elizabeth couldn’t look at him. She focused her eyes out of the carriage window. Clenching every muscle in her body rigid. If she looked at him, she could just envisage herself swinging her arm round a backhanding him an open handed _slap_ around his imprudent face. Shouting such _thoughtless_ indictments at her.

Luckily, they were coming up the drive, and grinding to a halt on the gravel just opposite the front door. Elizabeth doesn’t answer him, she grabs her clothes, throws open the carriage door, and exits the coach, striding quickly away from him. Thomas doesn’t give up either. He gives chase to the angry woman tearing into the house with all the storm and hell fury of a red headed hurricane.

“ _Explain it_ , Elizabeth. _Don’t you dare_ walk away from _me_.” He orders in a foul shout as they come to the foyer. Seeing his wife offload her soggy clothes into the arms of a terrified housemaid, who can’t seem to scurry away from the both of them fast enough back across to the kitchens.

“ _Answer me_.” He growls, rapidly losing his hold on his temper as he stalks ever closer, seeing red now. Her sheepish silence answering his questions. He gets close enough to grab her arm from behind, forcing her to twirl around and face him and his enquiries. She viciously shrugs him off, and surveys him with stony rage present on her face. He deserved every contemptuous word in the world for his obscene suggestions about her and Hugh.

“Certainly, which _uncouth profanity_ levelled against me would you like _answered first?”_ She asks.

“Let start with _what_ you were doing at that man’s cottage…” He speaks lowly, his voice brittle with perilous anger.

“I _was_ walking _home_. He offered me _shelter out_ of the _rain_. _That is all.”_ She tells him. Standing stiff, her eyes were cold coins of blue ice, and her lips her an unamused line.

“And… _that…_ ” He asks, his eyes lingering on the bodice, that she only realised was shabbily laced up at the front. “Enlighten _me on that_ , why don’t _you, Elizabeth_.” He insisted.

She tilted her head. Loathing him more than she ever believed possible right at that second.

“My own clothes _got soaked_ in the rain, Thomas.” She tells. “He lent me his sister’s dress so I _wouldn’t_ catch a cold.” She snipped, turning away once more. But once again, he grabbed her wrist, and got close. Close enough to smell the scent, an unfamiliar scent, woven into her partially damp hair.

“You’re going to have to learn _to lie better_. _Christ, you even smell like him_ …” He hushes in a raging whisper. She went completely still as a statue, nearly as if she was made out of marble. Once more, she tore her wrist, wrenching it out of his grasp.

“I’m. _Not. Lying_.” She bites out.

The look on his face told her he didn’t believe her for a second.

“Why am I having trouble _believing you?_ _I saw the man._ He too was _as scantily clad_ as _you are_.” He snaps.

Elizabeth was taciturn. Observing him in rageful silence. She didn’t know it was possible to feel so fuming by a man she loved so dearly. She wanted to hit him. She wanted her hand to sting, she wanted so badly to leave a red welt across his pale face for all the pain he was causing her. Her hand _Itched_  to indulge her wish. But she held back. She herself was a churning sea of emotions. Ire. Detest. Disgust. Anger. Violence. She could feel it shimmering its nasty hot way under every inch of her skin.

“Believe whatever you will. I've nothing to hide from you. I am being _honest_.”

She seethes. Making her way above stairs before his next words halted her, and rung through her like an echoing bell being struck by a mallet. The words rung in her ears, over and over again.

“Is that baby even _mine?_ ” He asks cruelly.

She turned and looked at him. Did she really _marry this man stood before her?_ Was this _the same_ delightful creature who wooed, and adored her? Sent her flowers, rescued her from a rainstorm? Claimed to love her so dearly he’d _literally_ take bullets to keep her from harm. She was convinced it couldn’t be. With hurtful accusations _like that_ being barked at her. Her breath felt strangely strangled as she answered. Her chest felt too big for her ribcage.

“My husband would _never_ in his right mind lay such an accusation at my feet.” She fumes so quietly. It almost couldn’t be heard. “ _Not_ the Thomas Kenworthy _I married_. It's apparent to me now. Maybe it's too much time spent with your _mother_.” She shook her head.

Thomas stood looking up at her, wounded, tears dripping down her cheeks as she stood there, on the stairs. Looking down at him with the contempt he knew he deserved – he didn’t want to accept it just yet. He was still too furious.

“People _change_.” He informed her stiffly. “People you once thought loyal go behind your back.” He tells her.

She looked at him with pity.

“I’m sorry you believe _that_. _I truly am_.” She rages, before continuing up the stairs.

Thomas watched her go. Only when he saw her disappear above stairs, did he focus back down into reality. He turned to head to his study. This time he _really would drown_ himself in scotch. He turns to head there, but finds his path halted by half the houses inhabitants staring curiously at him. Araminta, Richard, Violet, Benedict, Edith, Felicity, Ophelia and even Judith, all seated at the dining table, mid way through a meal, candles flickering on the dark walls. Violet and Benedict were stood by the door, half way out of it, all looking at him with intrigue and pity.

“Sorry you had to see that.” Thomas hushed to Benedict. Silently beginning to trudge away. But Benedict’s next comment made him halt.

“ _Don’t you dare_ , Kenworthy…” His friend snapped. Thomas was taken aback.

“You’ve been snapping at everyone, _moping_ around here for days. Sulking like an adolescent boy. Now you listen to me you idiotic _bastard…”_ He growled, his haunches up, getting right up in front of his friend, anger clearly present. He seemed to take up all the space in the room, he was so angry, and it was so against his usual placid nature to be so. 

Edith, jumped, mouth agape at his language to place her hands quickly over Judith’s ears.

“I’ve not had to watch you do a lot of stupid things in your life, _thank the lord,_ you seemed to have that honour in reverse _where I’m concerned_. Of that I’m _well aware._ And I am also aware that I am no saint. But for these past few days I’ve had to suffer you being a complete and utter halfwit. You _did nothing_ when your mother forced that stupid Hastings twit into your arms, and made Elizabeth watch you kiss her. I even said nothing when you let That Audley fool convince you not to let Iris marry the Reverend because of an assing piece of paper. Now that is not my friend. And I have not seen the true Thomas recently. So whatever’s eating away at you, get it out. Because I have never been ashamed to be your friend before. Like I  _am now_.” He told him, walking back to the room, and slapping his napkin down on the table. Walking out again. A tall, furious, storm of a man he was, when angered.

If you think you’re letting your sister marry a great pinnacle of a man with wealth and influence. Then I must most furiously insist that you are _wrong._ I watched Audley at the ball, unable to pay off a measly card game debt when he _lost._ And if you want a truer account of his nature, then there’s a 19 year old housemaid that you most urgently need to go and _talk too,_ Your Lordship. She’ll give you a full account of his personality.” He yells, coming closer to the miserable echo of a man who was once his best friend. His closest confidant.

“What's more, In London, you would’ve slaughtered a man who’d spoken the way you just did to Elizabeth. Why don’t you swallow your damn privileged pride, open your eyes, and see that what she is telling you is the bloody truth. Because until you do, you can consider me as an _indifferent acquaintance._ And _damn you to hell…”_ Ben snarled, before he too stormed away. Too angry to look at the man.

Violet looked worriedly at the Duke.

“I hate to admit I agree, but, _nonetheless…”_ She trails off, silently retreating to the dining room. Letting him take that as her agreement.

Thomas swallowed, slinking away with his tail between his legs. Another person who he adored now ashamed with him too.

 

~

 

 

 


	100. Wily Minx's, Strategies, and The Glory of Victory...

 

 

~ The Very Next Day ~

 

Benedict had considered throwing his stuff in his luggage trunks, and catching the very next coach out of Castleton back home, and then onto London. He wasn’t intending to stick around for Thomas to ignore him for the next week, as he was seeming to do everybody else. The option of packing up and getting out of Derbyshire seemed very appealing, were it not for the pleasant company he was enjoying. Violet, he had come to learn, was so much more than he first thought. At first he had considered her gaudy, astonishingly loud, and no more than a bitter debutante who’d been left on the shelf by her own choice. But he had come to view her in an entirely different light. He’d seen the beauty in her, in her laugh, her crude mannerisms, and her sheer clumsiness. He had warmed to her. Dare he even say it, he _liked_ her.

He was just heading absentmindedly down a corridor, he had slept in, and so he’d missed breakfast. He was thinking of heading to an Inn in Castleton for a full English breakfast, looking forward to the cool morning’s air stinging his face as he rode. He wandered along, his concentration on his thoughts, rather than where he was going. Just heading past the Duke and Duchesses studies, playing absentmindedly with a jade coloured apple he had swiped from the side table in the lunch room. He tossed it from one hand to the other, when an odd hissing sound made him slowly halt in his strides. Frowning lightly, his brows creased together. His eyes scanning about him.

 _“Psssssttt!”_ Came the near silent exclamation.

His head spun left, and then right. He could see no discernible evidence around the corridor of any sign of life being near enough to produce a noise.

“ _Carlton!”_ Came the whisper from behind him, a tad louder than the last hiss.

He spun about, twisting his bewildered head to see that the Duchesses study door was open slightly, and a pair of hazel eyes, and heart shaped lips awaited him in the slight space the door offered in its barely opened state. He frowned all the more, seeing that the flurried motion of Violet spinning her hand meant that she was urging him to come closer. Which he complies too. Stepping nearer, leaning down to ease the distance between them.

“Violet, _Why_ are you _whispering?”_

He whispers back, retaining a slight trace of volume to his voice. Not intending to cotton onto her odd absurdity, but apparently, even the mentally insane can infect level headed thinking men such as he. Outwardly getting annoyed at himself for joining in. A little crinkle of a frown sat crowning the space between his brows.

Violet jerked her head to the side, urging him in the room. _Unfortunately,_ this was _utterly lost_ on Benedict.

“Have you gone _mad?”_ He whispered. “Developed a _severe twitch_ since I spoke to you last?” He asks in his usual annoying humour.

He watched those hazel eyes roll. Showcasing her annoyance, they almost rolled _right back_ into her head.

“No. I have not _gone mad!”_ She whispers furiously. Opening her mouth to whisper another harsh hiss, only he cut her off.

“I _beg_ to differ…” He offers lowly.

“Get _in here_ , you _imbecile!_ ” She orders.

“ _No, I thank you_ , I was always warned not to follow where the _mentally ill_ lead me.”

He smiles, loving the sight of her frown, knowing he’d vexed her. That was his favourite profession.

Those hazel eyes now glared at him, and quicker than he could protest at, the door creaks open wider, and a small, pale feminine hand fists itself into his cravat and his overcoat, and _yanks_ harder than he could resist at being caught off guard. Benedict is barely able to yelp, by the time he finds himself pulled into the room, stumbling onto his booted feet, as the door is shut behind him. Blinking in astonishment at the scene facing him. And also at the odd fact that Violet was freakishly strong. Said woman crossed her arms, stood next to him.

In the study, sat Ophelia, Edith, Violet whom he was stood next too, and the Duchess herself, Elizabeth. All the women smiled gladly at him. Save for Ophelia, her beady little eyes sparkled gleefully at him. In one clawed hand - _talon_ \- he noted with alarm, she held her _dreaded_ walking cane that many had remarked was the cruellest instrument of torture ever known to civilised man.

“I do apologize for the _abrupt_ nature of your arrival, Benedict, don’t be alarmed but we had to get you in here without arousing _any suspicion_.”

The Duchess smiled sweetly across to him, sipping tea from the cup and saucer she held in her fine hands. Sat looking alarmingly pretty and civil in her pink velvet armchair. Ophelia to her direct right, and Edith on the settee flanking her left.

Benedict shuffled his shoulders, fixing his collar and ruffled lapels.

“The only thing _alarming_ , to me, Madam, is Miss Violets _abnormally_ _strong_ grasp…”

He spoke, daggering a look at the woman next to him. Who leered across at him for the insult. Her small - yet as he had found out wickedly strong - arms still folded across her bodice.

“I take that as _a compliment_ , Sir Carlton.” She informed him.

“Then, forgive me, for I must have _said it wrong_.” He grins back in teasing.

Ophelia leaned across to Elizabeth. Smiling an alarming smile at Elizabeth. The reason it was so alarming, was that Ophelia rarely smiled, and when she did, it was usually in humour of some poor creatures benefit.

“You were right about them, Mrs K. A _most handsome_ couple indeed. When’s the _wedding?_ ” She grinned. As did Elizabeth.

Both women watched with glee, as both Violet and Benedict both reacted in almost the same manner. The both of them flushed bright red, and their eyes blew wide. Accordingly Benedict took one big side step, making a show of moving away from the woman, clearing his throat and being awkward fixing his collar, fiddling still with the fruit in his hands, as Violet similarly shuffled in a mortified manner, fussing with her skirts.

Ophelia looked at each of them in turn, Elizabeth smiled as she stood down her tea on the end table within reach, next to her.

 _“Finished?_ The both of you? _Good._ Now that _that’s shut_ the both of you _up_. Come and take a seat. We’ve some urgent business to attend too.” Ophelia chided them kindly.

Violet slunk quickly to come and sit next to Edith. And Benedict sat the other side of the girl, close to Elizabeth’s armchair.

“You are an _old battle axe_ , Ophelia. I hope you _know that.”_ Benedict muttered to the old lady as he sat down.

This seemed to please Ophelia most greatly. “Women of my acutely great vintage _often are, dear_.” She assured him.

“ _Now…_ ” Elizabeth started, looking at the roomful of people surrounding her in turn. “I needn’t _explain_ to anyone the reasons that we’re all gathered here…”

She began. The self-explanatory nature of such _hung_ in the air around them.

“But it now stands to reason, that you four are the _only_ people in this house who seem to have their heads screwed on _right_.” She explained. “That being said, you are also, as it stands, the only people whom I can _resolutely,_ and _strictly trust_ to help me steer this shipwrecked family back in the right direction…” Elizabeth told them all.

“What about your family?” Benedict asked the Duchess.

Elizabeth raised a perfectly sculpted auburn brow.

“Felicity and Araminta I don’t trust not to blab, same goes for Judith. I trust her sweet little heart, and I know they’d want to help, but one of them _could_ blow our cover. Similarly, Iris hasn’t yet left her room. And my husband is otherwise indisposed being a phenomenal _prat.”_ Elizabeth smiled sunnily.

“Well put.” Benedict chimed in with a nod of his head, agreeing with her assessment of her husband’s actions as of late.

“So, we are all here, because you four are the last people I can trust, I need you to help me oust The Earl of Audley from exerting himself on this family. To do this, I will need all of you to understand what kind of man he is. Which has been explicitly explained to me by the Reverend, Hugh Everett.” Elizabeth clarified.

“To sum up, the night of the ball, Audley...” She swallowed, but, the bitter truth was the exact catalyst needed to get the man gone from all their lives.

“He raped Suzette, our 19 year old housemaid.” She told, not surprised by the gasps coming from those who didn’t know.

“…And The Reverend informed me this was not _the first instance_ of such a horror being committed by him. He also did the same thing to Hugh Everett’s sister, Margaret when she was fifteen. Only, it was much worse, because she bore his child. Luckily though, she was able to marry and pass off the child as hers and her husbands. But there’s more…” She soldiered on.

“The Earl of Audley, is an army deserter, who abandoned his troops to die on the battlefield. He stole Hugh Everett’s wife, seduced her, used her, and then left her and took all her money when she found out she was dying. He has also sought to ruin Hugh’s reputation, mocked him, and caused such acute pain for his own amusement. He has latched onto to powerful, rich people to hide from the censure of his actions, lying to them as he does. Meanwhile, he has enjoyed taunting Hugh by threatening to expose to Margaret’s husband whom is Peter’s true father.” She elucidated slowly.

The people around her looked stunned.

“I do not know how he has become involved with Caroline, but clearly she is using Audley to get Iris married to someone with a title. Which, is not strictly true. He may be using the _name_ , but Hugh told me the title died with Audley’s father. So, yet _another_ lie. I can only think Caroline was deceived by his lies too. Clearly she does not know he hasn’t _a penny_ to his name that is his own. But he is under the protection of one of the most influential men in Britain. Claiming to have been the one to save his son’s dying wish, when in actual fact, he is the reason said man is now dead.”

“Who is this man?” Violet asked.

“The Marquis of Renford. Seymour Eldom the Third. ” Elizabeth told them all.

“ _Jesus Christ_.” Benedict sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You can say _that again_ …” Elizabeth sighed. But it was Ophelia’s reaction that shocked them all the most. Because she chuckled.

Elizabeth must have looked at her in some bewildered manner, because of the old harridan’s subsequent answer.

“I knew his _grandfather,_ you know... We used to play whist together. _That old bugger_ used to cheat like no one’s business. Only because he was fond of me, matter of fact, I think he tried to court me, you know. But he was a doddery old fool. I said 'no' on the grounds he couldn’t handle my _vivacity_ … It takes a great man to handle _such stamina.”_ She bleated fondly with a wink.

Elizabeth’s expression was still one of shock.

“Right. _Um,_ well….. _Good.”_ The woman squeaked. “Well. We’ll certainly have to _use that_ to our advantage…” She smiled.

“What’s the plan?” Edith asked with a smile, glad to divert the conversation anywhere, else. Away from her great Aunt’s love life.

Elizabeth grinned at her niece.

“Preferably one that topples Audley from the golden pedestal he has placed himself on. And manages to end with my dragon of a mother in law being thrown out of the house in disgrace. Or into a _fountain.._. I haven’t made my mind up yet…” Elizabeth growled in contempt. Everyone grinned slightly at her wish.

“How do we intend to discredit the Earl?” Benedict asks. “Let’s not forget Sawnie is close to the Prime Minister, and the Home Secretary. Going against him will prove fruitless unless we can _absolutely_ guarantee our success.” He illuminates. The Duchess was glad to see the man was a realist. Better than someone blindly providing them with false hope.

Elizabeth didn’t look the least bit swayed by news that their downfall could be costly. In fact, she smiled wider.

“That’s where my friend comes in…” She smiles, and almost as if she couldn’t have timed it any better. There came a twist of the doorknob, and into the room, wandered a small, well-groomed boy. Dressed in clothes that were a few sizes too big for him. He looked sheepishly to the strangers he hadn’t met before, sidling over to Elizabeth.

“Everyone, this is Seamus. My friend. _Well, actually_ , to tell the truth. He’s a very adept _Pickpocket_ I met the other day in Castleton.”

She smiled, Seamus smiled to the people surrounding him. He looked very much changed from the grubby, knock kneed urchin she’d met the other day. After a good scrub in a hot bath, some borrowed clothes from the stable lads, he looked vastly different. Happier, more contented. _Then again_ , she thinks, _she would be too if she didn’t have to sleep next to a boiler in a smelly butchers shop._

Elizabeth handed Seamus a small plate of biscuits, which he gingerly accepted.

“How will he help us take down Audley?” Violet asked.

“Yes, I wondered that myself…” Edith chimed in, the pair of them looking bewildered. Looking to Elizabeth to seek an answer.

Elizabeth grinned, and looked across to Seamus. “Go ahead…” She smiled sweetly.

Seamus, all the while munching noisily on a biscuit, reached into his back pocket of his shorts and withdrew a thick, black, leather wallet. Monogrammed with the initials; _B.T.J.C._ There was a second of silence in the room before Benedict sat bolt upright, fumbling for his coat pocket. His mouth agape as a startled yelp came sailing out of his mouth. Violet barked laughter at him for it.

“ _My wallet_ …” He croaked, Seamus chucked it back to him with an amused little smile. Wiping his nose on his sleeve afterwards, reaching for another biscuit.

“ _How?”_ Benedict asked. “My wallet didn’t leave my persons since I put it in my back pocket twenty minutes ago…” He told them all.

“Evidently _it did_ leave your persons…” Violet laughed. Benedict glared over Edith’s head.

“Well, I had to prove my point somehow now, _didn’t I?”_ The Duchess grinned evilly.

"I told him to swipe it as you walked here to join us." She explained. 

“You are _a minx_ , Mrs Kenworthy.” He rasped, placing his wallet deep in the recesses of his overcoat. Eyeing Seamus dubiously as he did. Glaring a friendly warning for if he tried to steal from him again. “Will it be _safe there?”_ Benedict asks in a good natured growl to the little kid stood beside him.

Seamus nodded a smile back at the cautious man.

“So, how will Seamus help us with Audley?” Edith urged gently

“He writes a diary, there’s _bound_ to be something in there about his past to incriminate him. And we’re going to steal it. _Tonight_.” Elizabeth told them.

“Let’s hope for our sake the vile man fills it out with plenty of stuff to put him in _the wrong.”_ Violet leered. Feeling excitement at the prospect of sneaking out tonight, on a secret quest to restore good to her friend’s family, and marriage – _god willing._

“ _Hang on_.” Benedict spoke, halting the women’s brief tirade of premature enthusiasm.

“Your plan is to, steal from the Earl? How? If he’s in his polished townhouse, isn’t there too much risk being caught by a servant?”

“Luckily, Seamus has favoured the _less reputable_ establishments in all Castleton. And in his moving here… _well._ Go on Seamus, explain _for me…”_ Elizabeth urged, smiling at the lad.

Seamus floundered for a moment, before finding his courage.

“…I used to pick pockets in Kingwood passage. By all the taverns and pubs in Castleton. I’d go to maybe three or four each night of the week. And well, The Earl always goes into The Jolly Tankard every Wednesday night. Always. I always see him talking to the barmaid, Maggie, in there…” Seamus explained.

Elizabeth met Benedict’s gaze.

“I still have one remaining shred of doubt…” Benedict spoke up.

“Then let’s hear it…” Violet demanded, getting fed up with his killjoy nature.

“All of you, are going out tonight? To this pub? To steal Audley’s diary. How are you going to do that without _being recognised?”_ He asked. “You’re the _Duchess of Chatsworth_ , There isn’t a man, woman or child in Castleton that won’t know _your face, Elizabeth_ … _Or_ Edith’s.” He pointed out.

“That’s a very credible point Carlton…” Ophelia hastened to add. Turning to look at the Duchess.

“Three women such as yourselves, a debutante, a Duchess, and Violet Burchrowe…” He spoke.

“Why does that sound insulting to my ears…” Violet asked him.

“Happy accident….” Benedict grinned. “ _Anyway._ Three well dressed women, A Duchess, her niece, and her friend in fine tailored gowns stood in the middle of a grotty pub is _hardly_ going to be the most _winning disguise_.” He informed them

The Duchess didn’t look the least bit chagrined. Matter of fact, she looked mildly spurred on by his interjections.

“Simple.” Elizabeth explained, coming to a stand.

“We don’t go _as ourselves_ …” The Duchess smiled, crossing to her desk, where sat a large, beaten leather trunk. Throwing open the lid, and looking at the musty old contents inside. A pile of assorted tweed and cloth. Along with old boots, hats and overcoats.

“Okay. Then. May I go dressed as Lady Bracknell?” Benedict suggested.

Elizabeth gave him a cutting look. She reached into the trunk, ignoring his cheeky comment.

“These were leant generously to us by the glamourous, gorgeous and wonderful, René Lândry. I give you, ladies, _our disguise_ …”

Elizabeth spoke, leaning down and bringing back up a tailored, green tweed, man’s suit. Holding it out in her hands.

“Why would _anyone look twice_ at two gentleman, and a young boy at an inn?” She asked with a satisfied smile.

“Maybe the fact they all speak suspiciously _alike women?”_ Benedict funned to them. Violet looked at him, and Elizabeth knew in her heart of hearts, that had Edith not been sat between them. She would have hit him across the head for that remark.

“That’s why you, Benedict, will be coming with _me_ and _Seamus_ to the Inn, and Violet and Edith will be sneaking into The Earl’s townhouse whilst he is out to lift any other evidence we may stumble across.”

“Breaking and entering? Are you _mad?”_ Benedict asked.

“No. Sir Carlton. I am _a woman._ So I’ve given this a great deal of thought and planning.” She spoke, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a small, iron key. Showing it to him.

“This, is the key to the servant’s door in the Earl of Audley’s house.” She tells him. “Wallet’s aren’t the only thing Seamus can steal.” Elizabeth winked to the man.

“I may have now call you a wily minx, Your Ladyship…” Benedict smiled. “Let’s go bring down that _bastard.”_ Carlton smiled.

“That’s _the spirit_.” Ophelia grinned. “Took you long enough to get on board…” She huffed, chiding him.

“I’m glad everyone’s on board. Ophelia, I’ll leave you here, in charge of holding down the fort.”

“Keep the forge fires burning, so to speak?” The elder woman clarified.

 _“Indeed.”_ Elizabeth smiled. “If anyone asks where we are, you cleverly state we have gone to a musicale recital at Eunice Palethorpe’s residence and shan’t be back til late…” Elizabeth told her.

 _“Pity.”_ Ophelia cursed. “If Caroline came snooping, I’d intended to spike her tea with a sleeping draft…” She spoke completely seriously.

“Oddly. I’ll keep you posted. I rather like that idea…” Elizabeth smiled.

“Right. As long as everyone knows where they’re going, and what they’re doing. We leave at midnight, from the stables. _And pray to god above_ that all this pays off….” Elizabeth grinned.

“Let us not forget. This is for our beloved Iris. To not allow that boar to marry into our beloved little kingdom. _So follow your spirit and upon this charge, cry god for harry, England, and St George….”_ The Duchess leered.

“Come Midnight, tonight, we ride, with any luck, to victory... Echoing Sir Carlton’s statement, let’s go take down that _arrogant bastard_ …”

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edith applied, in secret, to accept an unpaid, voluntary post at the local library lending a hand to the senior members of staff there to order and sort books. No one in the house has yet noticed where she disappears too at 1 o'clock each Tuesday for four hours. Everyone, except, for Elizabeth. Who in her turn, unbeknownst to the girl, helped put in a good word with a written reference. Because it spoke so kindly of the girls passion for books., her devout love and extraordinarily verbose knowledge of literature, they accepted her right away.


	101. Devilish Horses, Clever Disguises, and Guilty Culprits...

 

 

 

~ Let us see some gentlemanly disguises... ~

 ~ Elizabeth ~

 

~ Violet ~

 

~ Edith ~

 

~

 

 

Elizabeth crept near silently along the pitch black corridor, the only light to her path coming from the stark, cold light of the moon that beamed through the windows up ahead.

She moved quick, to any observer’s eye, she was a shadow, quickly and softly sliding along the wall not making a single sound. She had pilfered one of Thomas’s great long overcoats, the man had a few heads of feet on her, so naturally the thing lapped at her ankles as she walked, slapping the back of the brown, calf length gentleman's boots she wore, she had stuffed the toes with her spare stockings to better fit her feet. Even so, her narrow, small feet still rattled around inside them something comical.

She wore a suit coloured the shade of green olives, tweed, thick, and the collar itched where it rubbed against the back of her neck. The white cotton men's shirt she wore under the same shade waistcoat didn’t act as a buffer between the scratch of the tweed, and her neck, she kept reaching up to fidget with it. An impulse she was fighting to resist. It made her look twitchy, out of place, and unnatural. Because she certainly _didn’t look_ much alike herself tonight, that much was apparent. Her unruly copper hair was threaded into a plait, and then subsequently tucked up into the dark tweed flat cap sat perched on her head. Still a few unruly copper curls escaped near her nape and her ears. She even went as far to truly make her as unrecognisable as possible, by smearing some charcoal from an old matchstick across her cheeks to make her look grubby, and as unfeminine as she desired too. She was still quite shocked at the way the clothes pulled tight across her figure. Never had she felt so exposed, which by extension, she thought made her costume stand out like a beacon, as nerves ran hot and rampant through her body. It was all she could do to push them down, and ignore them for the time being.

She comes to the servants entrance to the yard, which she softly slips out of. A shilling pressed into a canny housemaids hand assured the Duchess that the door would be _‘accidentally’_ left unlocked when the staff closed and locked all the doors for the night. She presses her leather gloved hand to the window pane to shut it gently behind her. Then she darts as silent as a wisp of wind across the moon drenched yard, across to the stables. Striding quickly in an unelegant gait she was not used too. The boots transforming the way she placed her feet. The suit and swooping overcoat straining against her body as she walked in a way that felt foreign. She was used to dainty corseted dresses flowing about her knees and small slippers on her feet. Walking now, with her chest bound in a ripped up bedsheet, - which had been bound tightly with Elsies discreet help - and a jacket baggy enough to conceal the secret of her baby bump. She suddenly was awash with fear at the weight of her actions. If she failed, if she messed up in any small way, then her life as she knew it, would be changed for the worse indefinitely.

Iris would be stuck in a miserable marriage to the worst sort of liar.

Caroline would ensure her and Thomas stayed miserable in matrimony, forever trotting out Anabelle Hastings to serve a a sparkling example of the woman she thought Thomas _should_ have taken for a nubile young bride.

Hugh Everett, her friend, a man whose life was wrought with pain and sorrow all due to one bully, would be expelled from his job, and would either have to go to the continent to seek work, or to another end of the country. Start his life, over once again.

She paused, letting herself sigh deeply. One hand braced against the brick wall next to her, to the outhouse farm building just around the corner from the stables. She watched and felt her breath ghost up out of her, and off into chill of the inky black night. She took a second to simply expel air in and out of her lungs. Sending up a meagre prayer to the starry heavens above for her quest.

“I _will_ be strong.” She promised aloud to herself in a whisper. Ignoring the pinch of butterflies and nerves that were currently rotting away at her stomach _. “I will.”_ She swore. Patting the brick wall before pulling herself forwards, glancing around, before she tugged open the stable door to see the inhabitants. Both the four legged equine kind. And two legged human kind.

She left the stable door open, for their departure. Smiling at the gathering of dark clothed people stood down the far end awaiting her. They too, all eager to help fulfil such a worthwhile venture. Illegal nature of it be damned. It was for an incredibly commendable, and very valuable cause.

Elizabeth strode down the them all, taking in the musk of animal sweat and hay that was fragrancing the air about them all. The horses, restless, shifted and stomped in their stalls at their nightly visitors who were disturbing them. Watery white moonlight shafted in through the high windows, framing patches of the cobbled floor in silver.

“Evening troops.” Elizabeth mumbled as she got the small group. Seeing that Edith, and Violet were dressed in a similar manner. Chests bound, hats pulled low over their eyes, concealing their hair which was tucked up into their head attire. And they both had bulky gentleman's boots on each of their feet. Edith's black calf lengths almost came up to her slim knees. She was pleased to see that Benedict had not opted for Lady Bracknell, or Widow Twankey or any other dame for that matter.

He too opted for his scruffiest, darkest gentleman's clothes. A devastatingly long overcoat shrouded his devastatingly long frame, dark boots and breeches covered his legs and feet, and he wore a grey tweed waistcoat and jacket, atop a tattered white shirt which – judging by the Pembroke collar – was seven seasons out of date with missing buttons and ragged patches where it was worn through.

It was odd to see him dressed in such a manner. As Viscount Carlton, she was so familiar with him bedecked in London’s finest draperies and fashions. The best cut suits from the most expensive tailors. With elegantly tied cravats, shining boots and a coat of such fine make, all who he passed by in the street would envy it. To see him in ragged, faded clothes, made her appreciate just _what_ she was asking a gentleman of his rank to do. He was a rogue, this was well documented and known from Orkneys to lands end, but rogue was no assurance of loyalty to his friends to this high degree. And she suddenly was overcome with a rush of emotion, and gratitude that he would seek to help her try and win her lowly situation in her favour. She doesn’t know why it took the sight of missing buttons from his shabby waistcoat to realise it. But that’s just how it came to pass on her mind.

“Before we go, I just, I want to… _to thank you_. _All_ of you. I realise I ask this of each of you at great risk, and possible cost. And… well…” She trailed off. She merely smiled at them all.

Carlton reached over and squeezed her hand.

“We’d all follow you into battle, Lady Kenworthy. What's a little theft if it means the happiness of a person we all hold dear?” He winks with that woman felling smile. Eyes glittering in the half light. It was possible to see why he had so many females beguiled. In this light, Elizabeth almost felt enchanted by him.

She smiled.

“To your horses, ladies and gents…”

“What about Seamus?” Violet spoke up.

“I sent him on ahead. He’ll tail Audley for a while, and found out where he’s going to be. He’ll come find us. Behind the Fenton Street Mews at half twelve on the dot.” She told.

“We’d best get riding then.” Edith smirked.

The three of them smiled at her eagerness.

Elizabeth watched them pick their mounts, and swing themselves up into the saddles. She had bribed Ashby to tack them up before he retired to bed.

This left them four choices; Edith had opted for Cleo, the sweet tempered, pearly white Andalusian. Sweeter than a child's dream to ride. She was easy-going and obedient. Much alike her rider. Violet hauled herself up onto Fabio. One of Chatsworth's working horses. A hot blooded, copper brown Arabian. Fast as you like, if a little stubborn and eager to work. Benedict had an Arabian too, Patch. A young stallion, still unused to being told what to do, a little immature like a naughty errant schoolchild. But always got you where you needed to be. She watched Benedict pat his neck as he shifted and fidgeted, eager to be ridden. Get out of the stable, burst into the open space into a gallop, to stretch his legs in the nights air. Elizabeth looked around the other stalls. She tilted her head when she came to Max, Thomas’ own trusty Orlov Trotter. He wasn’t tacked and ready to ride as she had asked.

She frowned. Perhaps Ashby was pulling a prank on her. She stepped forwards and gave Max a handful of oats as a treat. If she couldn’t ride him, the least she could do was indulge him.

Someone violently stamping their hooves and snorting down the far end made her look down to the first stall. The first stall where a notorious, shadow black beast stood, loudly vying for her attention.

She sighed.

“Angus Ashby, If this is your dastardly idea of a _joke_ …” She spoke to herself walking down the stables. When she got to the first stall. She saw the fussy inhabitant was tacked up, alert, and ready and raring to go. Coal black coat shining, saddle on, mane groomed.

Only that inhabitant was Carrick.

The devil incarnate on four legs. With a tail like Saint Nick himself. Which was currently swishing and flicking at her, and she swore to the lord almighty, Garrick _winked_ at her right then. She was sure of it. If _ever_ a horse could possess the capability to look smug, this creature could pull it off _swimmingly._

Elizabeth levelled a long hard look at the belligerent animal. And pointed a finger at his velvety black nose as she glared. She could always tack up another horse. But they didn’t have time if they were to meet Seamus at the mews to catch Audley.

“I sware, on the life of my unborn child, Carrick, you interrupt my motives, or cause any singular _ounce_ of trouble tonight and I will see to it you come on the receiving end of having no more oats or apples, ever again, whilst I’m on this earth. Do you understand me? She growled in her best tyrannical Duchesses’ voice.

Carrick snorted at her.

Elizabeth swung open the door, and eased herself up onto the cunning creatures back.

“Show me what speed means then, you old _devil_ …” She spoke, patting his neck.

She had no sooner grasped the reins, and slid her feet into the stirrups, and Carrick was off, launching into a gallop across the yard. The moonlight streaking across them both as Carrick went hell for leather as if the grim reaper was on his flanks.

She was beginning to see just _exactly_ what potent stock Carrick put into the meaning of the word  _haste_.

 

~

 

They reached the mews, a little early in fact. But Carrick could be entirely blamed for that. He barely stopped at crossroads. And he wasn’t even a jumper, but he had seen a fallen log in the woods and he had considered it fair game. He sailed over it when they went through the Blackberry Woods path. Elizabeth was sure by this point, a little tap of her boot in the side would do nothing among the hundreds she had given. She was sure she shut her eyes and held on tight when she felt him leap for the jumping obstacle. He came to a slow pace – at last – as Elizabeth steered him along the back alleyway. It was just her and Carlton now, Violet and Edith had peeled off to go and let themselves into Audley's rented house to try and dig for more dirt on the man. Judging by the way he’d led his life from the accounts she’d heard, Elizabeth was hoping his private residence would be positively _filthy_ with proof he was no good man.

She slows Carrick to a trot – unable to believe he was capable of such a speed – and dismounted onto the uneven cobbles of the alley as she gave him over to the stable boy to keep him, careful to conceal her face. She merely nodded and kept her head low as she handed him a coin, and he housed Patch along with her own devilish mount, bidding them a ‘Good Evening Gentleman.’

Carlton smiled as they walked away. He twitched and resisted the impulse to offer her his arm. Which would not look _inconspicuous_ _at all._ Luckily, they wouldn’t be repeating this occasion. So he could resume his normal chivalrous duties as of tomorrow.

A small noise off to their left behind some barrels piled up, and stacks of old crates, turned out to be their small, thieving companion. Seamus hopped out from behind some of the debris that littered the alley. Munching noisily on a stolen apple. His cap on sideways at a jaunty angle, giving him a cheeky air about him. Or perhaps it was the fact that he knew these back streets like the back of his hand.

“He’s in the Jolly Tankard?” Elizabeth asked quietly, not wanting to be overheard.

“Yep.” Seamus grinned. Skipping off. Leaving his companions to follow.

“Chatty _little thing_ isn't he?...” Carlton sarrced. " _Can't_ shut him up."

The Duchess smiled.

“Chatty he may _not_ be, but a good thief he most _certainly is._ I can personally _attest_ to his skills.” She smiled.

Elizabeth tried her best to forget how to ‘glide like a lady’ as she had been taught to do all her life, firstly by her mother, and then Mrs Sharpe. Instead, she let her shoulders become loose, and her back slouch a little, she tried to put aside the womanly sway of her hips, and focused on the way she had observed that gentleman walked. With a slight lumbering of their gait, and an arching stride to their steps.

They wound through the narrow, jagged streets, following Seamus’s lead, seeing the merry, happy, honey gold candlelight that poured forth from every Tudor crossed window of the slanted narrow houses glow sunnily at them. Even at this late hour, men and ladies still flocked by on the streets. Going to the small local theatre, or putting a few pennies behind one of the many pubs in the village. The Duchess and the Viscount in their disguises weaved and bobbed through the crowds, coming to the small back court yard of Kingwoods Passage, where sat wedged into the houses, was the Jolly Tankard Public House.

“To battle…” Carlton smiled wickedly at Elizabeth and their un-chatty pickpocket.

“I’ll try not to talk as far as is possible.” She told him. “Lets get a table in the far corner, if he’s not completely inebriated yet. We’ll need to let him sink further into insobriety for a little while.” She explained.

Benedict nodded as they approached the door.

“I see no harm in us enjoying a little tipple either. It’ll pass the time. Plus we’ll look a little odd a table of three sat in the pub – not joining in all the drunken fun to be had.” Carlton winked, shoving the door inwards, before remembering himself and letting it go for Elizabeth to catch.

“Well remembered.” She whispered in a smile under her breath. He thought that was the only time in his life a woman would ever _thank him_ for shutting a door on her.

The pub was low ceilinged, dingy and dark. All the tables and chairs were oak, and creaked and cracked when anyone sat on them. It was lit by only the half light from flickering wax candles on each table, and the air was stale with smoke, stout ale, and the dirty, grubby smell of ancient unclean wooden floors. Men were crowded in thick numbers around the bar, swarmed like bees around a honey pot. A few sat and drank, and laughed raucously at tables and bar chairs. Benedict nods Elizabeth to slide into a table flagged by benches in the darkest corner. Seamus followed her, unbeknownst to the Duchess, Seamus had sneakily acquired a wallet, and a silver watch from a pair of men who were hacking laughter together, slumped back, the both of them three sheets to the wind, on a table they wound past in the din.

Elizabeth turns to avoid colliding with a group of men walking through the pub. One of whom, noticed how she shrunk out of the way, and clapped her on the back, hollering a noisy ‘Sorry Mate’ as she was violently backhanded on her back, causing her to stumble forwards by an inch. Blinking at the sheer unexpected force of his merry blow to her shoulder.

“I keep forgetting I’m a man.” She remarked to herself, Seamus giggled at hearing that.

She lounged onto the uncomfortable cradle that the oaken bench offered, she hadn’t seen Audley yet. But she adjusted herself to be on the seat that overlooked the dingy bar. Fidgeting to find comfort on the atrocity that was disguised inventively as a seat. A seat of which would offer no support to anyone of average human size any sort of ease whatsoever.

She folds her hands on the table top, and hunches her shoulders to appear manly and bulky. All the while, her eyes focused on looking for the raven haired devastation of an Earl to keep er entertained as she waited. She saw Carlton stumble back over from the bar his hands full of glass tankards brimming with god only knows what. As he slunk back and set down three – what she presumed was pints – down in front of them, Seamus eagerly leapt to scoop his up, But Elizabeth gave him a stern look from under the brim of her hat.

“You look like _a lady_ again when you do that…” Seamus warned her, pointing at her elegant, charcoal strewn face. To which she frowned. She – reluctantly – slid the pint in his direction. Giving him a look at his perky effrontery.

“You were so saccharine and shy when we first met. Now I half wonder if your not turning into a cheeky rogue who I’ve Incidentally I’ve taken under my wing unawares…” Elizabeth spoke quietly, fearing being overheard.

Benedict sipped the pint across from her, smiling at their exchange. He noticed Elizabeth shuffle and fidget on her seat. Her eyes fixed on the busy scene across the room.

“Relax your nerves, Elizabeth, do not fret, I saw him at the bar when I got the drinks in.” He eased her thoughts. His eyes finding hers over the brim of his tankard.

I would have been impossible to miss the way her eyes lit up at that.

“He didn’t see you…?” She asked

He shook his head.

“Not unless I was, _permit my language_ , somewhere in the barmaids _wares_ , shall we say.” He told her with a twitch of the brow.

She scoffed.

“Caroline astonishes me with how _not_ to pick suitors for her children. Was Lord Byron _not available?_ … He makes Audley look like _a saint_.” Elizabeth grumbled.

“A high feat indeed.” Carlton grumbled. Before he slid Elizabeth’s pint in her direction. She gave him a look as if he had just offered her a dead animal on a platter.

“One sip…”

“I can’t. Though I outwardly appear a man. Inwardly, I am _still_ an expectant mother.” She informed him.

“It’s ale. But I’m almost certain someone just swilled some hops and spices in some barley water at some point In the making process. It’s very _weak_ …” He explained.

“You’re making it sound a veritable _treat,_ Carlton.” She sarrced. Still resisting.

“If you’re worrying about what effect it will have on the child you’ve got brewing in there…” He began.

“That doesn’t instill me with a sense of confidence, _you,_ of all people, talking about children… matter of fact I’m uncomfortable even hearing the word cross your lips…” She intercepted.

“…That baby, Lady Kenworthy, if it is wise enough to possess any of your canny, fiery spirit, Is ready to take on the _world_. Let alone a single, meagre sip of very weak ale.” He smirked at her.

Elizabeth took a second to consider that thought. Before she grabbed the tankard, raised it to her lips, and took a dainty sip that was - belying her male appearance - decidedly very ladylike.

She spluttered as soon as the liquid passed her teeth. But very skilfully swallowed the copper coloured beverage instead of snorting it out her nose in a way that certain to draw attention to herself. It tasted like stale water, infused with what tasted like ash, and that had possibly met some hops for a brief liaison at some point. Wiping off what had dribbled down her chin, and across her lips. She passed the tankard back to a now giggling Viscount. Even Seamus was smirking at her too.

“That’s _foul_ …” She squeaked.

“That’s _ale_ , for you.” Carlton grinned.

Elizabeth looked very much as if she wished to scrub her tongue with her hands in attempts to rid herself of the taste.

“I’m rapidly loosing faith in your goodness, Carlton.” She spoke in a small voice.

“Well, we cant have _that.”_ He smirked in a purr, his eyes shining seductively at her in teasing.

“Don’t _you dare_ turn rakish on me now. Or I will show you what unimaginable world of pain a pregnant woman is capable of inflicting upon you. Hell hath no fury to equal it. And, Need I remind you, there’s _a child_ present.” She persisted, pointing to Seamus.

Thankfully, their conversation turned elsewhere as Seamus then spoke up.

“Isn’t that the fella we’re watching after?” He asked in his soft Irish burr, pointing across the room.

Carlton turned, and Elizabeth sat up from being hunched over, to better see who he was talking of. They looked across the bar, which was less busy now, to see Audley reclined across the bar in a chair, tenderly stroking the busty barmaids hand.

“What a _catch_ he is for her. _”_ Carlton growled. His voice, the Duchess noticed, was _ice._

Iris was twice as beautiful as the woman he was currently seducing across the room from them. Iris had raven hair, pale skin and eyes that could enchant a man. The Girl Audley was wooing, and she was, a girl, had a cackling laugh, and yellow teeth, with unflattering mousy hair and pronounced, unattractive brown eyes. How could he be so blind and callous as to choose such a girl, over a striking, beguiling woman like Iris Kenworthy? Benedict found his fists clenching tight on the table top at just what a blackguard this man was. He already wanted to plant a welting punch to the mans face for assaulting the sweet, timid French housemaid at the ball. She was such a dear girl. How could such a monster sleep safe at night? Knowing the misery and pain he had caused… too well for his liking, was the answer.

“Wait, we need to see how inebriated he is…” Elizabeth spoke up quickly, putting a hand to Seamus’s arm before he sprang from the table, and off to do some stealing.

“Here’s what we do. Carlton. Go to the bar and order another round. But stand near him, distract his attentions. Seamus, whilst he does this, have a quick assess and see if the book is on his persons…” She thought aloud.

Benedict didn’t need to be told twice.

“Cough twice, _loudly_ , if you see the book on him Seamus…” Elizabeth leaned forward and told him.

She watched them walk over, one after the other, she watched Carlton linger near the bar. As the barmaid, rosy cheeked, and no doubt blushing from the Earl’s advances, moved away from Audley to fulfil his order. Seamus rounded the man and slowly took his time lingering past the bar stool where he sat. His coat folded over the back of it. Elizabeth watched as Carlton mumbled something which Audley smirked at, cottoning on, starting a conversation. She noticed that the Viscount kept his head turned, facing straight ahead, his hat pulled low so Audley couldn’t meet his eyes directly. Mind, merely judging by the way he was slurring and waving all over the place, he wasn’t entirely sober.

Carlton called out to the barmaid, and over the din, Elizabeth heard him ordering a drink for the earl. She smiled. The plan was working swimmingly, now, only to see if…

“ _Ahhhem. Aheem_.” Came Seamus’s assurance that he was in possession of the book. The insignificant little red book that would ruin everything.

Elizabeth grinned. This was _real_ , the plan was working, the elaborate guise paying off. Finally, after _weeks_ of misery, the promise and flickering embers of hope were returning to her sight. Within her very grasp. _And my god_ , she was going to grab on and never let go… Hope was, _not actually_ , hers for the taking, technically, but she could allow herself look past that for now, she’d get her hands on it, and worry about her conscience later. _What was a little thieving along the road to oust a man guilty of far worse?_ Suddenly, what made this whole seem all the more ridiculous, was that she was doing all this on behalf of her dear friend, the Reverend. She wondered at what point in her life, did she consider theft as a reasonable, well justified activity in aid of a clergyman… to put it simply, was to make it sound as ridiculous as it really was.

She watched, her heart drumming in her ears, and she was suddenly very aware of her pulse as she saw Seamus move in for the kill. She watched him come back around the man, and then, quick as a flash, his little hand snuck softly into the pocket of the coat on the back of the chair, and whipped out holding the scarlet red pocket book. Tucking it thereafter in the inner pocket of his own scruffy waistcoat. Elizabeth was certain _she’d never_ seen a more glorious sight than that.

She grinned at Seamus across the room, and darted her head across to the door, urging him to leave before he was spotted. He tipped his hat to her, and eagerly complied.

She looked back across to the bar, seeing Carlton was leant against it sipping on another tankard of disgusting ale. Keeping up the pretence in an admirable fashion. Elizabeth coughed twice, loudly over the merry raucous din of the dark pub. Informing him the prize had been reeled in. She smiled, pulling her cap further down over her eyes, and wanting nothing more than to retreat to the back alleys and streets and run home as quickly as she was able. She squeezed past a rowdy gaggle of men, shuffling past, her eyes turned to the bar to see if Audley had even noticed. Which It turns out, he hadn’t. She smiled, smug in her victory. Unfortunately, with her eyes so focused on the earl, she didn’t see where she was headed, and as such, bumped noticeably into a rather large, and drunken gentleman, causing the tankard in his hand to slosh violently on the floor where she had jerked his elbow forwards when bumping into him.

Her heart froze, and her stomach leapt to her ribs in shock. The man turned and scowled a glare at her, shaking his hand of the droplets of ale that now ran off it. Her mouth gaped, and she stuttered in a manner akin to a brain-dead goldfish.

“Oi, what's your game, son?” He barked.

“I’m, So sorry, I…” She stutters in the best low voice she could manage.

“ _Oh,_ your _sorry are_ ya’ lad? Watch it, you clothead or it’ll give _you a seein’_ too pal.”

The man bristled, a fat, bald gentleman with a permanent scowl snarled at her, extending his free hand and aggressively shoving her shoulder harshly backwards, only problem being, that this caused her to stumble backwards, and her feet found an obstacle of a chair leg sticking out in her path, which makes her whole body drop and bristle with pinpricks as she then finds she is sprawled across the dirty floorboards, prostrate, managing to catch the floor with her hands first, before she hit it, her neck jolting as she landed, not causing herself any bodily harm, _thank the lord_ , except, perhaps, for the slightly too large flat cap that flew off her hair and landed on the floor a few inches from her hands.

And the other problem that arose from this, is that now, Everyone around her could now see the long copper tresses that had unfolded from the plait, definitely labelling her as a _definite_ female, and no mistake. She feels her cheeks reddening. Now, as she was posed, on her hands and knees, in full view of the bar. With the Earl and Carlton looking directly at her. The first hints of panic seeping into Benedict’s eyes… _This wasn’t going to serve her well._

“What _the ‘eck?”_ Her prickly aggressor exclaims.

She stays still for the longest second of her life, feeling the Earls poisonous green eyes glare in realisation at her, before she darts her hand out for her cap. Snatches it back onto her hair, and scrambled up, away and out of the door before she could have the chance to draw a breath.

She runs out into the alley, unsure which way to turn. She tried to catch a glimpse of where Seamus might have got too. Hiding amongst beer crates somewhere. But she couldn’t see him. An unknown hand from behind her makes her jump as it whipped the flat cap off her head, and she doesn’t realise she yelps as a male hand winds through her hair and yanks. _Hard._

She drops, her mouth agape in pain as she is led off to the side, and thrown to thud harshly against a brick wall, and then, there is an intoxicated rapist of an Earl glaring her down.

“Are _you following_ me? you pathetic little sneak?” He asks. His body flush against her own. She tries to twist her face away from the toxic fumes of his breath that indicate he’s put more than one drink away. His hand still viced painfully in her hair.

She didn’t answer, instead focusing on the burning that was still radiating through her scalp.

“ _I’m_ …” She pauses. Wondering how on hell and earth she could appear innocent in all of this.

“A foul _whore_ is what you are.” He informs her, slurring and spitting the words in her face. His green eyes examining her in a calculative, assessing way.

“Maybe I should _start treating_ you like one…” He considers, his eyes growing murky with lust as he tries to drunkenly fumble with her shirt.

Elizabeth grits her teeth, deciding there was nothing else for it…

She makes a fist. Wraps her thumb outside it, to curl into her index finger, then she _strikes_.

Landing a quick unexpected blow of a right hook to plough into the left side of his jaw. The satisfying rush of adrenaline and power of finally doing what she had envisioned so many times, was short lived, as he withdrew his own hand, and did exactly the same back. She didn’t feel anything at first, but then her bones grated and rung under the force of his hands, and a dizzy, starry blackness burst across her face as she slumped to one side, clutching her face, and speechless from the pain. As she falls sideways into a pile of empty crates.

There came a sudden roar from behind Audley and before she could fathom it, she saw nothing but a starfish of four limbs throw themselves onto his back and begin pummelling and pounding the man for all he was worth. It appears Seamus, cleverly hidden in the shadows somewhere, would _not_ take kindly to assaults levelled at his new employer. She hears quick footsteps as Audley wrestled with the urchin currently wrapped around his neck.

Carlton wrenches her to her feet, and dusts her off, cupping her sore cheek as she winces, his soft fingers tenderly touching to the welt Audley had left. The gold Sovereign ring on his finger made a study battering ram to the delicate slopes of her face. She leaned slightly into his touch, but only because the coolness of his hands soothed her burning face. She watches with horror as Seamus detaches himself from the angered, drunken Earl’s back, as he had managed to stumble to man into a pile of empty beer barrels. Loud crashes and splintering wood ring in all of their ears as they watch the earl try to sluggishly get to his feet once again, in amongst the splinters and shards of wood.

“I think we’d better leave… _now_.” Carlton gabbled with urgency in his voice.

Elizabeth nodded, and they began to head off, she took Seamus’s shoulder and tried to ascertain if he sustained any injuries. Before they could escape unscathed, The Earl was upon them again. He had caught Carlton’s coat and grappled the man from behind into a fight.

Elizabeth was having _none_ of it.

To her left she saw an empty beer crate. She told Seamus to go and fetch the horses, As she saw both men interlocked in a scuffle, she took her moment when she saw she had a gap, she hauled the crate high, and sent it crashing and splintering down on Audley's head, as Carlton ducked out of the way.

The man dropped like a stone.

And Elizabeth watched him stumble back, being so unfortunately placed – much to their now delight - as to land his body prostrate into the horses water trough. Where the water was a bottle green stagnant, inelegant, foul and noxiously fragrant kind.

Elizabeth dusted off her hands, and helped her companion, who now sported a cut cheekbone and a nosebleed, up off the cobbles as he stared slack jawed at her and her strength.

He looked at the now unconscious, and soggy, Earl before them. They shared a look before the laughter overcame them both. They howled, they cackled and shook with mirth. So much so, that as they ran back to the mews, laughing all the way as they ran, that tears burned and blurred Elizabeth's vision. And they had to stop, and gasp for breath on the dark streets.

“What if he _remembers_ it was _us_ in the morning?” She asks him as worriedly she mounted Carrick ready to ride back to Chatsworth. Benedict, already atop Lester, tugged the reins back as he smiled across at her, stemming the blood from his nose on his tattered sleeve.

“Elizabeth… The man was _stinking,_ steaming _drunk_. He could _barely walk_. He’ll be lucky if he remembers his _own name_ in the morning… Let alone us.” He chuckled with glee. “And, we have the _book._ ” He smiles wider, Giving Seamus a well deserved pat on the head as he too sat just in front of the Viscount, also on Lester's saddle.

“Well done, young master Seamus. I applaud your crafty hands. And don’t think I didn’t notice you take my wallet _again._  If it’s quite alright with you, I’ll have that back when we get home to Chatsworth if I may…” He orders in a strict tone, as he ticks Lester in the side to urge him off into a trot.

Elizabeth gave the now sheepish Seamus a look as she had done earlier. It was her famed _‘mother hen’_ look.

“ _What?”_ Seamus asked in an affronted tone. “Your _so easy_ to steal from, _it’s good practice_ …” He implored in his little ten year old voice.

“Well. Elizabeth. All I do have to say is this. My visits into Derbyshire have never been so exciting in all my years of coming here… You certainly do make for a colourful outing…” He smiles to her as they begin the ride back through the woods to meet Edith and Violet.

When they re-meet their colleagues, it proved to be a successful night for all involved in the scandalous plan. Not only did Violet and Edith find proof of Audley's infidelities in letters and such like, but they had found the one thing that would be the final nail in the coffin for the man.

They ride back to the stables the back way, so as not to pass up the noisy gravel drive attracting all the attention from the sleeping inhabitants of the house. They bolt the horses back in their stalls. Untack them. As a group, they all decide to slip into the house and back up into their rooms together. Only now it was four, As Seamus’s home, was off the stables in the servants quarters with the stable lads anyway. They each of them remove their boots, so as not to be heard across the tiled floors, and make their way through the foyer and intending to head up the stairs.

Elizabeth and Benedict were just regaling the tale of Audley plunging unconscious, ass first, into a horse trough having been knocked out cold by the Duchess wielding a beer crate as her weapon of choice.

“It sounds _too good_ to be true.” Edith giggled mercilessly, trying to whisper and failing to quieten her mirth.

“It sounds like something from _a penny_ dreadful!” Violet gasped in hilarity.

“My Lady, I have _never seen_ a member of the gentry wield a beer crate to such ill, violent effect.” Carlton teased in a smirk. “Why, Mrs Kenworthy, you handled that box with the grace and poise of a true artiste, I’d never suspect such a gently bred lady to be so trained in the art of boxing, _quite literally…”_ He smiled.

“My ribs ache from laughing…” Elizabeth grinned, feeling successful.

Of course, she felt grubby, worn through, tired and her feet were completely killing her. For now, she was ignoring the burn of her cheek. The ride back in the cold had soothed it a little. But now, she had grand plans to collapse onto her bed. And she wasn’t even sure she’d spare the energy to pull off her boots. Just collapse onto the butter soft bed and have the best nights sleep she’d had in a month. Knowing she’d go to her dreams with the sweet taste of victory finally being on her side. One step closer to rectifying her life back to rights.

She smiles to herself. But a lantern suddenly flickering to light on the stairs above them all make them gasp and stop. Elizabeth halts first, Violet crashes into her, Edith into Violet and Benedict halted his lanky frame before he stumbled and crashed Into the Duchess ahead of him in a most graceless manner.

All four guilty culprits, grubby, shabbily clothed, and very obviously having gotten up to something of _less than dubious_ intent, peer up the grand staircase to see a bare footed, dressing gown glad Duke. Dressed In a large white shirt, and black sleeping breeches under his golden dressing gown, glare down at them all. The vein in his neck and his forehead popping angrily, pushing out of his pale skin. His inky hair unruly, telling them all he had been briefly enjoying sleep before this. His jaw was ground tight, viced together that eluded them all as to his oncoming ill temper.

“I _think_ we’re in trouble…” Benedict spoke lowly.

“Correct.”

Thomas snapped lowly, his voice a terrible angered echo of its usual placid nature.

The four of them shrunk down under the Duke’s icy gaze. As it turns out, the sweet taste of victory might be a little bitter for their plan being uncovered, after all.

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iris also has a middle name that she never uses. Just like Thomas never uses his. Iris's is Marianne. Iris Marianne Kenworthy. Chosen, oddly by her father after the character of the same name in Sense and Sensibility. Of whom, he hoped, would have her stout romantic heart - which she does.


	102. Mean Men, Harsh Words, and Deception...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than I'd like, but very important. - end note, btw, possible hint at a spin off story ;)

 

~

 

When the four of them subsequently found themselves frogmarched into Thomas’s study, they all suddenly find it very hard to see any _hilarity_ remaining in their situation.

They stand the opposite side of Thomas’s desk, in a line. Adjacent to them, with his arms folded, and an expression of thunder on his face, was a _very_ hostile Duke.

All of them fought the urge to slouch and stare at their shoes like guilty children. Because anything was better than meeting the icy blue stare of the livid man.

“ _One_ of you…”

Thomas growled in a low, lethal voice that was laced with absolute command and authority.

“…And I don’t much _care which one_ of you. One of you, will, tell me what _on earth_ you were all doing out of bed at this hour, dressed In such a way that leads me to believe your venture out was not of _an innocent_ one.”

He drones coolly. Taking note of Carlton’s bleeding nose and cut cheek, and if he was no so mistaken, Elizabeth had a growing welt forming on one of her fine, pale cheeks.

_Nobody spoke._

_Not a one._

Violet fidgeted with her gloves.

Carlton examined the scruffy toes of his boots.

Edith shrunk down, with her chin to her chest, so as not to look at her angry uncle, or she knew her meek spirit would be the first to soften and give away their carefully constructed plan.

Elizabeth, however, blinked casually at her husband. Her lips pursed as she met his stare head on. The only one brave and obstinant enough to clash tempers with the man adjacent to them.

Thomas examined each of them in turn. 

“ _None_ of you?” He raised an inky dark brow, surprised at their resolute unity.

 _“Alright then._ In that case, I will speak, and _I will_ speak _clearly_ …” Thomas snarled at them.

His wife did open her lips to speak, but her fuming husband silenced her.

“You may speak when _I’ve_ finished.” He snaps.

Elizabeths own jaw ground tight shut. And the glare in her shaded blue eyes intensified. In a way that let Thomas know he would have his hostility and belligerence handed right back to him, _tenfold._

“Ophelia has sold you all up the river. She told me of _where_ you were all headed tonight, and exactly _what_  you were all headed out to do. I don’t mind saying I absolutely _**do not**_ approve of this plan, not _one jot._ And this sordid plan in question of robbing an Earl, a member of the gentry of his _personal_ and _private_ possessions bears the signature, unique trace of having been concocted by _one particular_  stubborn, scheming, red haired, _Duchess_.” He spat. His eyes aimed at his wife, were daggers.

“If you do suppose our misadventure to be _all of_ my own design, then let Edith, Sir Carlton and Violet retire to bed. The hour is late, and we have had a _tiring_ outing. You don’t need to waste any anger on them if it is all entirely meant for _me, and me_ alone.”

She spoke lowly, her hands folded in front of her. As she bargained civilly, coolly even, with the ill tempered man before her. 

His eyes switched, to land on the other three in the room.

“Whats _worse_ , Elizabeth, is that you dragged my _sixteen_ year old niece into such a _sordid_ scheme…” Thomas roared, his voice rising.

His eyes found his wife one more.

“I dragged _no one_ anywhere they didn’t desire to be. Edith came _willingly._ ”

“… No doubt following your _brainless lead_.” He dug at her.

She stared at him. Not saying a word. 

Elizabeth let herself twitch a small disbelieving smile as she looked at her boots _. Those were the words of a loving husband, indeed… A husband whom, four weeks before, whispered nothing but love into her ears… O’ how far the mighty had fallen…_

“I went of _my own_ accord.”

Came Edith’s resolute, small voice. That sounded as soft and as innocent as the squeak of a mouse.

“Then I am _ashamed_ of you, you _idiotic child_.” Thomas barked at her.

“ _Thomas!”_ Elizabeth barked at his insensitivity. The Duke didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained fixed on his niece.

Edith met his eyes. Trying not to let her lip wobble, as tears filled her eyes.

 _“The feelings mutual.”_ She muttered under her breath.

 _“Bed. Now_.”

Thomas ordered with no more nonsense to be had from her. As she had been dismissed, she slunk away and out of the study, out of sight. She met Elizabeth’s eyes before she slipped out. The Duchess could see the gathering tears building and beginning to slip down her cheeks. Elizabeth shot her a fortifying wink before she dissapeared.

He turned his attentions then, on Violet and Benedict.

“I must say, I expected more decorum and intelligence from the _two_ of you, _atleast_ …” The Duke spat at his previously best friend, and the sheepish young miss by his side.

“ _How charming.._.” Carlton leered back with a stiff tone.

“I’ve come to understand the reasons for Elizabeth and my nieces _respective loss of intellect_ and decent acumen, as they are shortly to be  _related_ to the man. But I am _surprised_ to see the _both of you_ stood here as culprits as there is no _measurable_ cause nor motive for  _you_ to voluntarily wander into such a pathetic and _thoughtless_ venture against a man who is a stranger to the _both_ of you” He scorned at the both of them.

“Then allow me to supply you with a _sturdy_ motive, your Lordship; Our actions here tonight, though to you, appear _insubstantial_ , to us, they were governed entirely in the favour of a _great_ friend.” Benedict robustly held out towards the Duke.

Elizabeth smiled at that. _She couldn't have said if better herself._  

“…And if you were _anyone else_ in the world speaking to me, and everyone else you love the way you _have done,_ I’d have met you at dawn with pistols drawn _many moons ago_ for such blatant impudence.” He warned.

“I shan’t press further on your precious time spent in  _degrading_ your family. I’ll leave in the morning for London and you can from then on, consider me _a former_ acquiantance.” He told firmly, effectively ending their friendship.

Severing the bond between men who were closer than brothers. Who, at times and at many a London ball were like one anothers _shadows_. They may have been opposites in their respective characters, but they were _inseperable_. Thomas had saved Benedict’s life, and their friendship was as strong and as warm as any he had _ever had_ in his life.

The Duke blinked stonily at the man across from him. And swallowed. Accepting the situation.

“Get _out_ of my sight. The pair of you.” Thomas presaged, a little quieter. His voice wounded.

 _“Gladly_.”

Carlton seethed, turning his back on Thomas in the greatest show of disrespect that he could muster, He held the door for Violet and gave Elizabeth a hearty nod to buck up her courage as much as he could before he too was banished to bed, in exile and disgrace.

Elizabeth had the distinct feeling his hurtful remarks were only just getting _started_ …

“ _Hand it over.”_ He spoke stiffly.

“I _beg your_ pardon?” Elizabeth asked, her auburn brows shooting up her forehead.

“Don’t play coy with me you impudent _brat._ ” Thomas growled, storming across the room, rounding his desk and stepping far closer than she would have liked.

Elizabeth met his glare, _she’d been right after all, he was just getting started…_

“If I go to the stables right this very second _will I_ , or _will I not_ find some small street urchin bedding in the servants quarters who you’ve put to work in the stables as payment for getting him to steal things on _your behalf!_ And whats more, I can’t believe you could be _so bloody_ thoughtless as to go out, riding Carrick, that awful _intemperate_ horse, when you are carrying _my child_. That damn animal could have thrown you. You could have _lost the child_ You could have _been killed_. Do you _NOT SEE_ the errant dangers you _stupidly_ put yourself _in? DO YOU?”_

He shouts, getting right in her face as she watches him spew vitriol at her.

 _“Oh_ , it’s _your baby_ again now, is it? And here I thought you accused me of sharing my virtues _elsewhere_ when last we spoke…” She sarrced.

Thomas was not an inch from her now. She could see his chest rising and falling in anger as he glared her down. He wanted to _grab her_ , shake sense into her.

 _Lord help him, he also wanted to sweep every single thing off his desk and have her atop it right there and then_. She was so _infuriatingly_ stubborn, and utterly inflexible, _he wanted to kiss her lovely, irritating lips just to shut her up._

_Thomas was ashamed to find his being so bloody livid at her was starting to stir his blood - in the most dark, deep, lustful way. He wanted to throw her against the wall. Tear those damn, stupid clothes off. Sink into her with one drive of his hips and make her scream and beg. His teeth sunk in her neck. Her shouting apologies shaking the rafters down as he showed her how feral his carnivorous lust could really be._

“Give me the Earl’s book back Elizabeth. You cannot _lord_ about like a child, stealing the private possessions of _another gentleman.”_ He warns her in a quiet, dangerous voice.

She didn’t move, but he could sense her resolve weakening.

“I won’t ask _again_.” He warns.

She glares him a look as she moves her hands to her inside coat pocket.

“He is not the man he says he is. Worse than Burke if you _can imagine it._..” Elizabeth warns, reaching inside the pocket, and bringing out the small red leather bound book. Offering it across to him.

“I will not allow you to carelessly slander an _innocent_ man whose done you _no wrong…_ ” He warns her, taking the book and crossing to his desk to place atop the stack of correspondance that nested there.

_Tell that to that red welt on my cheek... She thinks._

“He is _many_ things, but _innocent_ is not among them.” She told.

“Go to bed, Elizabeth. I order you now, _stop_ chasing after the Earl to try and prove his misfortunes. We all have secrets. _Everyone_ is allowed to bear secrets that never come to light. The Earl Is _no different._ And I caution you to treat him with respect. He and Iris are engaged to be _wed_. _Accept it._ _”_ He chides her.

She stands still for a second before she heads for the door.

“ _Bed_ , Elizabeth…” He dismisses her coldly.

“Grant me one favour, _One mere favour_ , and I will desist chasing after him, and I will go to Iris and Audleys wedding, _and smile_ like a mad fool, and wish them _all the joy_ in the world...”

She promises, gambling with a very big risk. _Gaming with all she had to give._ All she was blindly fighting in the name of, and she was willing to sell it away for this one thing...

“ _What?”_ Thomas snaps with little patience.

“Go and Talk to _two_ people for me…” She urges him.

Thomas frowns.

_“Who?”_

“Suzette Guillaume. And Margaret McMurray.” She tells.

“Consider _this_ Thomas, you’ve got _five_ people, now, who are _all_ telling you, shouting at you _at the top of their very lungs_ , that the man _is not_ worthy to marry your sister. Maybe you should stop for _one second_ , drop the stubborn loftiness, and consider that five people versus one make for a much more _promising_ case…” She vowed gently, but firmly.

She turns and slips out of the study door, not saying another word, shutting it behind her.

Thomas looked down at the little red book on his desk.

Her words rolling around his head.

He reached for the book, and picked it up….

 

 

~

 

 

Elizabeth was not in the least bit surprised when she exited Thomas’s study, and walked along to head up the stairs to bed, to find her three companions – _her loyal band of brothers_ – sat awaiting her on the stairs.

 _Clearly they were all as vexingly stubborn as she was._ She smiled at that thought. 

Violet was slumped near Benedict, almost leaning on the man, the both of them looking worn through and very much wishing to be abed rather than be awake dealing with Thomas’s _foulness_.

Edith was sat in front of them. With her elbow bent, resting on her knee, her face in her hands.

They all sprang to attention when Elizabeth came into sight. She gave them all a sorrowful, guilty look.

“He’s got _the book_ , hasn’t he?”

Violet asked, sounding and looking downcast.

Elizabeth reluctantly nodded. Confirming that sad truth. The one thing they had fought so hard to procure, was now lost.

Their one shred of hope.

“ _All_ that effort, and _for naught_..” Edith sighed glumly.

Elizabeth leaned forwards and grasped her hands, squeezing it tight, and offering her comfort.

“It’ll be alright in the end, Ed. _I promise_.” Elizabeth winked, with a cunning smile.

“How can you say so? The diary was our firm hope. Other than that, all we’ve got are some flimsy documents that won’t stand on their own, We _needed_ that book to make our case a firm one.”

Carlton frowned at the Duchess.

“Why are you so _bloody chipper_ , lady K?”

He asked curiously. A frown still crowning his features.

“Thomas has got _a_ book.” She began, reaching for inside her coat pocket, and drawing out…

…A small scarlet red diary.

“I didn’t say he _had the_ book.”

She smiles. Grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Seeing the subsequent grins that came from the three around her was more than satisfactory.

“How?” Edith asked in amazement.

“Seamus taught me a thing or two in the art of thievery. Lesson one; it’s always handy to be the deceptive one, rather than the decieved.” She winked.

“What’s our next step? Cunning Mrs K, you wily minx, you…” Violet grinned.

“Tomorrow. I’m gathering together all our hard collected evidence. Because _I’ve_ got an appointment to take tea with a _certain Marquis_.” She smirked.

“You never?” Edith gasped.

“How on earth did you manage to gain an audience with him? I mean, the man knows _the Queen_ for _gods sake.”_ Carlton enquired.

Elizabeth’s smile stretched out winningly.

“We have an _old battleaxe_ in the family. You know.”

“Well… bless my soul…” Violet chuckled.

Benedict shook his head in amazement.

“That old biddy…” He smiles.

“She does have her uses after all.” Elizabeth granted.

“Now, to bed, the rag tag lot of you. Busy day tomorrow. Saving the future happiness of the family _and all that_..”

She smiled, springing jauntily up the stairs, and away to bed. For come tomorrow, with any luck, she’d need her beauty sleep in order to impress one of the most influential lords in all of the british isles.

_No pressure…._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edith remarked that of all the histories of the world she had read, none fascinate her more than Celtic History, particularly Scotland. She states that reading books on scottish history makes her feel ashamed to be British. She longs to go to scotland. Thomas teased her that shes not going, for maybe theres a remote danger she’d fall in love with a strapping, six foot, red headed Scotsman. Little does she know... Thomas' predictions may become truth at some point in the near future... 
> 
> Because who do we know that has relative up in Scotland? ;) oh yeah. I'm going there.... Believe it. I ship this couple already.... And I know who could be the inspiration for him... Any outlander fans in??? 
> 
> ;) x


	103. The Marquis of Renford, Tall Tales, and Inscrutable Truths...

 

 

 

   

~ Wolvesley Castle; Home to the Marquis of Renford ~

~ Wolvesley's fine parlour... ~

~ Elizabeth's Dazzling Blue Dress ~

_(Oh, Alan, we all miss you! </3)_

~ The Marquis of Renford  ~

 

Seymour Augustus Winthorpe Nathaniel Isacc Eldom the Third was a man to whom his acquaintances, he considered something to rival among the finest gift and riches a man could ever procure in his life. He prided himself on his fine ability to give consequence to every close friend he had. And he had many. Clutched from far off days at school, though he was an old man now. He held close, and very dearly, every new friend who had come into his life since then. From meeting them at balls, to numerous charitable events in and around London. Because he ran and funded almost all of them. He could usually tell the difference between people wanting to make his friendship for fickle, powerful means of their own desires, and when they were being genuine in their acquaintance. He wasn’t a strict man, but he would have harsh words with anyone who _dared_ think him a fool held up merely by his wealth and rank.

He sat today in his second favourite to sit and write letters in. The bright, airy room, decorated with flowering ivory mason wallpaper, trimmed with gold to all the furnishings. From the gilded furniture, to the skirting boards, the room was simple, yet at the same so elegant it was a thing of pure, breath stealing beauty. You would not find a more tasteful and sophisticated parlour in all the fine houses and mansions in Britain while this one stood. He was sat, overlooking his fine, well trimmed, very precise privet hedges, scribbling a letter to a lord, when he was interrupted by the polite interjections of his reliable Butler informing him that her grace, the Duchess of Chatsworth and the Dowager Countess to the Earl of Carlisle, were waiting upon him in the parlour.

He smiled, His grandfather had always spoken highly of the late Sir Percival Ridgeworthy’s wife, Ophelia, with great feeling that let him know she jilted his proposal and left him broken hearted at the altar to elope with a Russian prince. Quite a salacious old life that old woman had led. Not _all_ of it _perfectly respectable_ , then again, the most full, juicy and memorable of lives _never were_. That was how it should be, that was the joy of them. Victorian Society was strict, this he knew, but he didn’t agree with it’s ruthless lack of allowing one to have their share of harmless fun.

“Do see them through, Willsborough.” He informed his Butler with a smile as he put down his ink-pen, eager to see The Dowager again. She was like a good, aged old port. Plenty of kick and certain to come with a hefty bit of flavour to spice up his otherwise bland day.

And he had heard nothing but wonderful things about the newly wedded Duchess of Chatsworth too. Birds apparently sang when she drew near, her fertile looks were remarked to already provide her Duke with an heir. And he had heard it what her eyes were fine, and she had the most lovely, elegant pale neck in all of Christendom. Of course, there had also been the sordid chatter that her husband was cuckolding her for a worthless debutante who was vying desperately to become his mistress. Alas, the Duke has sought to not have anything further to do with the girl. Instead not much has been said of him since. The Duchess was said to bowl over the rumours and gossip mongering and put on a smile for all to see. He liked the sound of that, she sounded like a judicious woman. The best sort. When tongues will do nothing but wag, he was comforted to know the woman would turn her cheek on cruel rumour. Not shrink away from it.

He had a feeling he would like her very much, and when he saw her glide gracefully through the door, with the Dowager and her weapon of a cane came tottering after, well, now he knew it.

She was an elegant woman and high rank and no mistake, her skin so fine and pale, it was like a cloudless overcast sky. She had brilliance about her blue eyes, and the delicate pink of her cheeks made him assured of her lovliness. But no one had warned him about the sirens call of her Raphaelite, Rosetti-red hair. Elegantly coiffed into an artful style. He could also indeed see the rumours regarding her neck to be true. She did indeed possess the most graceful neck he’d ever laid eyes on. Were he her Duke he’d bless every day being able to place a kiss upon such a neck, like some would to a saintly object of worship and religion. Her figure too was undoubtedly fine, her dress of peacock and sapphire blue silk only made her look all the more ravishingly beautiful. She held herself like a woman of great mind, and composure. Were he but forty years younger, and in the mind to take a wife, he’d want a clone of this replica goddess to be all his. Surely a man who had her as a wife, woke up each morning blessing that her head was the one he looked to on the pillow opposite.

When she smiled in greeting him after her quick curtsey, her smile seemed to make the room sunnier.

“Your Grace, it is _such a_ pleasure to make your acquaintance…” She spoke. Her voice was lovelier and softer than birdsong to his ears.

“Lady Kenworthy, If I may flatter myself, the pleasure is indeed all my own…” He smiles gently, both his hands swooped to arc through the air and grasp her own, as he placed a kiss on the back of her hand.

“Allow me to say, My Lady, that tongues do so wag, and far and wide word has been spread to me of the god given beauty and elegance of the Duchess of Chatsworth, and now I see you with my own eyes, I quite believe them guilty of having _under exaggerated_ your striking looks. _My word_ , the Rosetti hair, the most elegant neck _I’ve ever_ laid eyes on, such pale skin. Tell me you’re a painting by Everett Millais? I _beg_ of you…” He smiles kindly. Grasping her hands as if she had known him all her life.

“You always were a _flatterer._ Though to your credit, Seymour, you always _were sincere atleast…”_ Ophelia barks up from behind Elizabeth before she feared that the Marquis began to dribble on the Duchess. She rocked her old bones to creak into an armchair in the room. Not waiting to be invited. Whomever denied an old woman the pleasure of a seat to rest her old bones due to want of an invitation needed a _good_ clip around the head.

“Ophelia Ridgeworthy. You do _never change_ , you old battle-axe. I adore that about you, you know. Times may change. Wars rage on. Government parties rise and fall, and yet The Dowager Countess of Carlisle remains a _constant_ , much as _she ever was_.”

He remarks with a warm smile. His eyes, unremittingly brown, warmed like hot cocoa as they shone down at Ophelia. Beaming at her from either side of his long, straight, flat blade of a hooked nose. And the medium length greying hair on his head belied his age, especially when he smiled and wooed them so warmly in such a cheerful way that made him look almost twenty years younger than he was.

 _He was an earnest, genteel sort of soul…_ Elizabeth thought…

“Please, follow your Great aunt’s lead, be seated… do _be seated…”_ He awarded Elizabeth. Gesturing her to a spotless ivory armchair near her relative.

“So, I take it you didn’t lightly take the careful consideration of travelling all the long way from Derbyshire in an uncomfortable carriage, to my Shropshire neck of the woods, for no apparent reason?…”

He spoke, relaxing back on the settee, crossing his legs, and linking his hands together on his lap. His face, though still warm, now bore a urgent look of intelligent curiosity.

“You are certainly perceptive, Your Grace.”

Elizabeth praised, her smile remained sweet, but The Marquis could see that there was more than mere loveliness lingering in her blue eyes.

“Please, do help yourself to the tea. Its usually less awkward to talk when there's a tray of tea to be had. There's things to _hold_ and _stir.”_

He informed her, Elizabeth noticed, though he was intrigued by what she and Ophelia had come all the way here to say, he didn’t scrutinize her harshly, or _intimidate_ her into speaking. His soft eyes goaded her gently into giving up what she had to say.

“… _Astute_ , Eldom. As always. We did not come here with such transparently _empty_ wishes to enquire blithely as to your health, _coo_ at the loveliness of the parlour and congratulate you on the wonderful beauty of Wolvesley. Our reasons for the trip here, could be regarded as something of a sensitive issue. Ground to be _lightly_ treaded…” Ophelia told him. Thumping her cane on the floor angrily to give emphasis of her words.

“Indeed? What then, _is this_ sensitive matter?” He asked them, eyes switching in turn from Elizabeth, to Ophelia.

“We understand, Your Grace, that the…. Earl of Audley is somewhat, in your _favour?_ …”

Elizabeth enquired genteelly, her eyes finding the Marquis’s over the brim of her dainty teacup.

“Audley is what I consider as my ward. He was an officer in the Crimean, he saved my, _dear_ son, Joseph, from being killed in battle. Sadly he… _died_ of his injuries in the medical station. With Audley by his side when he passed. He was even so good as to return my son’s heirloom to me. His golden sovereign ring. I never _dreamed_ the sadness of the only bequest I gave upon my son to be passed back to me. That is a _terrible_ tragedy.” He spoke honestly, his face withdrawn.

“No parent should have to see their child buried.”

Elizabeth spoke gently. reverently. The mere thought of loosing the growing life inside her was a potent enough thought to pull her heart to pieces.

“Your Grace, I come here today, On behalf of someone I love _very dearly_ , and of someone who has grown to become a _great_ friend to me. I’ve heard it said that you _admire_ having _truthful_ friendships, friendships of significant importance. If you will permit me, I will address you in a similar manner of affability and respect. In no way, is what I’m about to say, _in any manner,_ a besmirch on your actions, but rather, I hold you as an upstanding man in too high regard to allow someone to undermine your kindness for their own, _selfish_ , purposes…” She explains slowly.

She watched Seymour frown at her, in a bewildered sense.

“The Earl of Audley, Sir. He.. is _not_ a man of _kind, nature_. I am certain he has lied to you to gain your favour and influence.” She told, gently treading through her words like stepping stones.

His eyes examined her shrewdly, and he stared her down as he spoke.

“You are not the first to lay such accusations at my feet regarding Audley. And I will say to _you_ , what I said to _them_. While Audley is my ward, I will not have his name _slandered_ by those who wish to do him ill will out of spite.”

“I respect that you are guarding him for what he tells you he did for your son, Your Grace, but I do not do this out of spite. I do this out of the complete opposite. I do it out of _love_ … For my…” She swallowed. “For _my family_.” She told.

Namely, Visions of Thomas, Iris and Hugh danced in her mind at that precise moment.

“… And I will dismiss your accusations toward my family. Mrs Kenworthy…”

He told her, Rising to a stand. Elizabeth could not watch her only hope for Audley's retribution slip away, right out of her fingers. He moved from his chair, coming to a stand, buttoning his coat, and turning for the door.

“Please, Finish the tea if you will. I do not wish to discuss this matter any further. I bid you a good day, ladies.”

“I _implore you…_ ” Elizabeth gabbled, shaking her head as she watched him walk away.

“From one-to-be parent to another, I know _it hurts…”_ She began, seeing it made him halt in his tracks.

I know _you miss_ your son. I cannot fully empathise. But in a few short months, I will myself be a mother… and I don’t mind admitting that…. _Well_. Your Grace. Between you and me, _I’m terrified_ …” She spoke honestly, wrenching her heart open to him.

“I will have a son or a daughter, they will look up to me. And I will adore them with a fierce love that knows no equal nor rival. To loose them, to have them ripped away from you in war..” She shook her head. “It must have _killed_ you every time you thought of their laugh, or how they used to smile, how little reminders of them creep into your day and destroy you all over again just when you felt like you were alright once more. How picturing them, home with you again, it is almost _too much to bear_. I know you’d do anything to rid yourself of that pain… You feel like pulling out your _own heart_ just so you don’t have to deal with the sheer _agony of it_ anymore.”

He turned to face her.

“I never could put it into words. You must have a _very poetic_ heart, Mrs Kenworthy…” He whispered in a broken voice.

“I didn’t loose a child. But _I was_ a child who lost their mother. And if you do not listen to what I have to say, then I fear that you will never know the true details as to how your son died. And you deserve to know the truth, however painful. Everyone **_always_** deserves the honest truth”

He turned to Elizabeth.

She reached for her reticule, and folded out the plethora of letters, parchment papers, documents she had inside, aswell as the small, little red diary. She looked down at the two pieces of paper in her hands, the two testimony’s in her hands.

One had never made it to court several years previous, from a Reverends daughter. The other, had been written at Chatsworth's staff dining table not a couple of days ago. One had been witnessed and signed by the family lawyer. Mr. Mortimer, a stout, reliable man who expressed his outrage that the testimony never reached a courts eyes for fear of the man before her.

She handed them into Seymour’s palms. Which shook a little as he took them.

“The testimony from Madamoiselle Guilluame, my housemaid, was witnessed by our family lawyer. I cannot validate Mrs McMurray’s testimony, but it was witnessed by her father, whom I understand was a Reverend… both. _um_. Speak of the _indelicate_ nature of intimate assault _caused by_ …..”

She trailed off. Letting it become apparent as he read

Thankfully, Violet and Edith were lucky enough to find Margaret's testimony when searching his townhouse on their midnight excursion. One would be enough to wave away as inconsequential, _but two?_

She watched his face sink, falling as his eyes scanned over the words faster and faster. When he was finished, his watery eyes met her own.

She didn’t say a word. She merely handed him the diary that she spent most of last night scouring through. Trying to find evidence of his very frank writings about the war. At length, she found it. and bookmarked the page.

He crossed to his desk, flicking wildly through the pages until he came to the very passage that Elizabeth had cried, clasping a hand over her mouth at when she read it.

_‘I left the battlefield today. Such fighting Is foolish. And What is there to be gained by it? I see no sense in fighting for my cursed country. I retreated. My chaos have enough sense and courage to fight their own way out without me. I want to live. I don’t want to die on this wretched battlefield. I want to leave and live my life. Be it as a penniless soldier. I made the company today of Joseph Eldom, hailing from Shropshire, son of a Marquis, who entrusted me with a golden ring. A foul, gaudy sovereign monstrosity that he wished me to gift his father if he didn’t return. Word has reached me now that he died. Which is of little consequence to me, I must say. I never much liked him. Too keen, too eager and animated about the prospect of why we’re fighting this damn war. He is a boy, a puppy, and a fool. He died holding the Chaplin Everett’s hand mumbling nonsense about god, and his fathers love, not giddy about war any more as he lay dying, the imbecile. I meanwhile, gave up on this bloody war and travelled north out of the confines of my company…’_

Elizabeth watched, with sorrow as The Marquis let the book fall to his lap, tears springing from his doe brown eyes as his mouth gaped, and noises of pain and confusion escaped his lips. Elizabeth stood, feeling entirely responsible for his torment. She crossed to him and pressed her fine laced hankie into his hands.

“He lied to me.” He spoke in a small voice, vicing the Duchesses handkerchief in his hands. 

" _My boy."_ He cried in a sob after a few long seconds of silence.  Cradling the diary to his chest. 

“He has deceived almost everyone he’s met, your grace.” She told him, holding his hand firmly as she settled on the armchair near him.

“He lied his way into an engagement with my great, great nice. Iris Kenworthy. She too lost her husband in the Crimea.” Came Ophelia’s gruff interjection from the opposite sofa.

“What's more, he has found an ally in a woman who is set out to ruin _her marriage_ …” Ophelia told him, pointing her walking cane at Elizabeth.

“ _Who?_ ” Seymour enquired, tears still glittering in his eyes. 

“Caroline Kenworthy, the Dowager Countess of Chatsworth.” Ophelia called across the room.

“I’ve heard her name. Vile old woman? A snob if ever there was one?” He asked, wanting to ascertain he had the right person.

“That’s _the one_ …” Elizabeth chirped

“ _Oh_ , of course, I make no personal venture into her character…” He offered as apology.

Elizabeth assessed him wryly.

“You don’t have to defend her on _my behalf_ , Your Grace, as it stands I currently wish to have her set upon by a pack of _wild dogs..”_ She smiled ruthlessly.

He chuckled slightly, wiping away the tears that slunk down his cheeks. She could see it in his eyes, he was changed from hearing this news.

“May I keep this?” He asks, holding up the book, also referring to the diary and the testimonies.

“Of course…” Elizabeth smiles. “Please, for all of our sakes, put them to good use, Sir.” She urges. “I imagine the home secretary would like a glance at them…” She enquired.

“Your _quite right about that_.” He nodded.

She smiled. Nodding her head in a grateful incline.

“Rest assured, Your Ladyship, I intend to rectify my sons memory. Audley, is henceforth, not under my protection. And I will not shield him from censure any longer. He will stand on his own two feet for once, and I don’t care if he hangs for it." He spoke honestly.

He reached across and clasped Elizabeth's small, pale hands in his own.

“Thankyou for giving me the truth. And not tiptoeing around my pain like so many others choose to do. _That is nobility_ my dear, and, many will always cherish you for it. _Never lose_ that.”

“I shall endeavour to remain noble as the situation allows.” She promised.

“This mother-in-law of yours then…” He asked.

She sighed.

“Are the rumours true? She threw a crazed debutante at your husband to come between you, and he denied he pursued her?” He asked.

“Yes, that is true. We haven’t spoken, apart from in anger, ever since.” She told him. It felt odd discussing her marriage with a near stranger, but, times must… And she trusted him. She wasn't sure why, she just did.

“Will you allow me to give you a small piece of advice, dearest?” He asks.

“Of course, your grace.” She blinks prettily.

“You fell madly In love with this man, yes?” He asks.

“Head over heels, Sir.” She tells him as her cheeks pinken.

She could practically hear Ophelia rolling her eyes from across the room.

 _“Believe his word_. What fool who had _you_ as a wife, would ever willingly loose you to chase after another girl? Two people fell in love, into your marriage, Elizabeth, remember, never forget that. I know its, _frightening, and humiliating_. But your husband may need _you more_ than he lets on. When there is no handsome hero to be found to save us, my dear, we must become them _ourselves_ …” He tells her.

She smiled earnestly. Meeting his eyes, which shone and sparkled at her.

“Now, shall we have another tray of tea? I’ve a great many things to rectify this afternoon, so I think I’d best reward myself with another cup, and a few brandy snaps whilst I’m at it.”

He raised his teacup to Elizabeth.

“To new, merry, lovely elegant-necked, acquaintances….” He smiled, raising his teacup. She clinked it gently.

“To new acquaintances…” Elizabeth parroted merrily. Leaving out the elegant neck part.

From behind her came a staccato bark from Ophelia.

“Hope the two of you haven't dared to forget I’m in the room. And stuff the bloody  tea. Seymour, bring out that good old 1834 bottle of cognac… We need to celebrate ousting that foul bastard and the hag of a mother-in-law. And don’t be stingy with the measurements either, I won’t live _forever you know….”_

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia has been more involved in Caroline’s being followed by Private Investigators than Thomas knows of. She has had the woman watched since the day of Theodore’s funeral. Not able to believe the woman would ever get up to any good. She tried to warn the poor man away from marrying the dreadful, penniless, hag. But alas, she didn’t succeed. Which is why, she now makes it her personal crusade to support her wonderful red haired great great, niece. For she has a same fieriness of temper about her that Opehlia had at such an age. Almost exactly, though her hair is the colour of snow now, it used to be red like Elizabeths. This is why Opehlia adores the girl so much. She is a spitting image of her in her youth. Twice as dazzling, and equally as stubborn.


	104. True Fathers, Intimacy and a Duke's Enlightenment...

 

 

~

 

It was late afternoon in the McMurray houshold when there came a small rap on the front door. Margaret was in the kitchen running one of Roberts stained white shirts through the grating slots of the washboard with some heavy duty soap in the sink basin. Scrubbing her hands raw, her fine white cheeks reddened from the exertion of her duties. Her dark curls straying from the strict bun she had it in, swaying into her face. She was wearing a more suitable victorian dress than all the old heavy woollen numbers she had become used to up in Cumbria. Today she wore a dove grey cotton, trimmed with tipped white lace to the modest collar. A scruffy apron was tied around her middle.

She turned her head behind her and saw the shadow of someone in the small framed window of the door. She turned back around and set the shirt down to dry beside the sink. Drying her hands on her apron, she strode to the front door, and swung it open, utterly surprised and in shock from whom she saw on the other side.

It was none other than the Duchess of Chatsworth stood on her doorstep.

“Good afternoon, Mrs McMurray.” She smiled lovingly. She was the kind of woman, whom had one of those rare smiles that one would be blessed to see. A smile that promised kindness, and warmth. It provided a bit of sunshine, did the Duchesses smile.

“Good afternoon, Your ladyship.” Margaret curtseyed, unsure of what else to do. Her mouth gaped and she widened the door behind her, fidgeting as she looked at the woman of high rank and elegant beauty stood demurely on her doorstep.

“Please, _do come in_ …” She smiles, still looking a little startled by the sudden apparation of a member of the gentry to her humble little home.

“I’m so sorry to spring such a sudden visit _out of nowhere_ on you. I do hope I’m _not interrupting_ you in _any manner_ at all, was I? if I was, please _do forgive_ my intruding…” Elizabeth fretted.

“Only from washing Roberts grubby shirts.” She explained. “Which I’m all too glad can be put on hold, my hands were just about done in if I’m honest.” She smiles. Elizabeth could see her pale hands were a raw pink. Pruned too from the sudsy water, she had clearly been persistant…

Margaret smiled warmly as she walked the Duchess through to their small, but clean and charming front parlour.

“This house is _lovely_..”

Elizabeth complimented. She loved Chatsworth to bits, but she did so adore a small. Cozy, nicely furnished parlour. The McMurray's was littered with framed pictures of the scottish wilderness, the cheery flowery blue wallpaper was heavenly combined with the grey velvet furnishings and drapes. The lit fire provided an amber glow to the room that was most welcome. It was snug. She adored it. It reminded her of Montague Street, The place she called home for four and twenty years of her life.

“Thankyou, Your Ladyship. I put the wallpaper up myself when we moved in. I feared it wouldn’t work in the room but it perks up the space sunnily enough for my liking…” Margaret smiled.

“It feels like a warm, loving home.” She grins.

“Would you _care for_ a pot of _tea?_ Your Grace… I had _per chance_ , _just put_ the kettle on the stove…” She tells the Duchess.

“Thankyou, that would be well recieved. _I’m gasping_ …” Elizabeth assures her.

Margaret fetches the tea and serves it in what she deems as her finest china.The brew is one that leaves Elizabeth moaning in sheer delight at its strength.

“You make a fabulous cup of tea, Margaret. Best I’ve had _all year_. Wilkin’s _could learn_ a thing or two from _one of your_ brews I wager…” She smiled, letting the heat seeping through the china soothe her hands.

Margaret smiled as she sat back in an old wooden rocking chair. Cradling her own cup as she sipped it. Her smile widened and her cheeks pinkened.

“ _One_ thing I can do, rightly, is make a good cup of tea…Robert always prefers his on the strong side, I always let it _brew a tad longer_ than they do in the south. I think I would be considered _an unholy heathen_ by most standards...” She japes.

“Well, those northern temperements are well appreciated with me.” The Duchess adds.

“He’d _be glad_ to hear of that.” Mrs McMurray smiled.

Elizabeth took a deep breath, fortifying herself for the reasons she had called here.

“Margaret, I have.. _something,_ to give you. It is _not mine_ to give, and I completley understand if you would wish me _to leave_ , after I give it you. It’s _not for me_ to keep. _I know that_. But. I think its _rightful_ place is with you.” She tells.

Margarets smile fades from her face, and she stands down her tea, and leans forwards to accept the small piece of paper that Elizabeth handed to her across the tea tray table that sat low in the center of the room.

Margarets hand trembled as she looked with shock and horror at the document before her. Her hand clasped over her mouth, and after a few long and terrible seconds of silence, she spoke up, her eyes flickered up to find Elizabeth across the room. Who sat in sorrow, awaiting her reaction. By rights, she could scream shout and throw her out if she wished. For Elizabeth had unwillingly glimpsed at a very horrible reminder of Margarets past.

“ _How_ did you _get this?_ ” She asked, her voice the merest hush of a whisper.

Elizabeth decided to be brutally honest.

“I stole it. From Audley’s townhouse…” She told the shocked woman.

Margaret gave Elizabeth a look that made her know she was ashamed of such a thing even existing.

“It’s _not_ what _you’d think_ …” She began. “I’m not a woman _who gets her head_ turned by a _salacious_ Earl, I… I’ve always been true to my husband.” She trailed off.

Elizabeth interjected.

“ _Forgive me for this, but I know_ the truth. Your brother told me so himself. I know the _whole tale, Margaret.”_

Margaret sobbed, it burst up put of her, and she slammed her hand across her mouth as tears sunk from her eyes down onto her hands.

Before Elizabeth could say a word, She found Mrs McMurray had crossed the room and thrown her arms around the Duchess, pulling her into a tight hug.

“Thankyou, _Oh Bless you_ , Elizabeth Kenworthy _. Bless you_.” She cried, sobbing into the Duchesses ear. Holding her tight as a true friend would hold their greatest acquiantance.

Elizabeth held her back, heartened. Stroking the woman’s back, before they pulled apart. Margaret sat perched on the settee next to the Duchess. Dabbing the corner of her eyes with her stained beige apron.

“I’m _so sorry_ … _I was overcome_ …” She responded, once again looking down at the paper in her hands.

Elizabeth found her hand and squeezed it tight. Letting her know it was fine. She smiled across at the woman, who was busy shaking her head in disbelief at the document within her grasp.

“Ever since, _the incident_ that night, Audley has plagued my family like a _foul curse_. He hounded my brother, he chased after me many a time, and I _prayed on my knees to god every night_ that he’d never find me _or Peter_ , or catch up with Robert and expose _what had happened_. He always threatened Hugh and me with showing my husband this piece of paper...” She told.

The certificate of registered birth of Peter McMurray, written by Audley to try and prove the child was his and claim custodial rights to the boy – to his son. Mainly for the money he would be granted if he could prove the child was being unlawfully kept from him.

“Me and my brother, Elizabeth, have been keeping Peter’s true father a secret for what seems like all our lives, paying him off as he blackmailed us at every turn. I _never want_ Robert or Peter to find out about this. Or what Audley _did_ to me that night. Bruising me, raping me, breaking my bones, making me bleed. Because then Robert would never be able to _look at me_ _without pity._ And I _don’t wish for that_. N _ot even for all the riches in the world_ …” She pleaded.

“I take it to _my grave_ …” Elizabeth promised firmly. Holding the woman’s hand tight.

“Why did you _do this?_ If I _might ask,_ Steal them from him I mean?” She enquired gently as she dried her eyes.

“Audley hasn’t just hurt _you_ , Margaret. He’s hurt _my friends_ , _my_ housemaid, and he is in cahoots with my mother-in-law who is out to hurt my marriage. And I _could not_ let him _so easily_ marry Iris when I know the man to whom her heart _truly_ belongs…” She tells.

Margaret smiles widely, smiling in merriment.

“He’s _mad about her_ , you know. He tells _me all_. He _adores_ Iris. And Edith, and Judith too. He adores _all of you._ And I can see _why…”_ She praised.

The Duchess smiled in contentment.

“ _So you see_ …. My reasons for thivery _were well justified_.” Elizabeth grins.

“I hope he doesn’t found _out you took_ them. He has _the filthiest temper_. I can attest to that.” Margaret frets.

Elizabeth holds her hand tight.

“I can _hold my own_. And you, your brother, Robert and Peter are about to be relieved of him _for good_. I went to see the Marquis of Renford today, he was the one shielding Audley from the censure of his superiors. He has the written testimony you wrote after the rape, he will use that and that of the testimony of my housemaid to ensure he recieves his _well deserved_ punishments he has for so long, avoided.” Elizabeth assured. “He assured me of _absolute discretion on your behalf_. You won’t be named. They won’t _mention anything_ about him being Peter’s _father either_ …” She promised.

Margaret expelled a huge sigh of relief.

“Do you know, _it’s ridiculous_. I have lived my life, tiptoeing around, _afraid of a single sheet_ of _paper_. Isn’t _that mad?”_ She asks the Duchess, who smirks at such a statement.

“Depends _whats on_ the paper…” Elizabeth grinned.

“Anyway. I gift them to you, Mrs McMurray, to do with them what you will.” Elizabeth finalised, reaching for her tea to finish the cup.

Margaret eyed the fire opposite her.

“How shall I know to live? To not be cowering in fear of him anymore?…” She spoke quietly. Relaxing back into her seat.

“I think I’ll go to bed tonight to have the _best_  nights sleep of my _entire_  life.” She told the Duchess.

“ _I’m glad_ to hear of it.” Elizabeth sincerely spoke.

Margaret squeezed her hand.

“ _Bless you for this_. I don’t know how I _can repay_ you for all you’ve done. You’ve given me _my life_ back…If theres ever anything I can do to recompense such a _kind debt please do tell me_ …” She smiles.

“Then in that case, tell your brother to _stay put_ where he is. For I’ve never known _a finer_ Reverend, or friend.” She grinned.

Margaret laughed. _She had a beautiful laugh,_  she laughed the joyous laugh of a woman who hadn't chuckled aloud, _not even once,_ in years. and her smile was twice as magnificent. And Elizabeths insides went all warm and gooey with knowing she had been the cause of _such happiness_.

It was then both ladies heard the soft shuffling of fine boots scuffle across the wooden floors, coming through from the kitchen. And before they could fathom that they weren’t alone – _and hadn’t been for some time –_ Elizabeth saw the tall, dark haired man, with the thin, handsome face, strong nose and dark eyes say handsomely in his pale face, dressed in dark, formal clothes that she presumed was Robert McMurray, dwarfing the parlour door as he looked in, meeting his wifes eyes.

Margaret leapt from her seat.

“ _Robert_ …” She squeaked.

Elizabeth realised then that the man had tears in his eyes, some were struggling down his cheeks. It was then that Margaret realised that he had overheard their conversation. He absentmindedly chucked his top hat down onto the settee beside where she had just been sitting.

“ _Maggie_ …”

He spoke in a soft, broken lull. Elizabeth could _instantly_ see where Peter got his accent from. Roberts voice was _thick_ with it.

She clasped a hand over her mouth and turned away from him.

“I’m _sorry,_ I’m _so sorry._ I never _meant for you to know_. Oh god. But I _couldn’t tell you_. How could I? I'm despicable. I _just couldn’t_ , _god, what must you think of me now? Don’t look at me Robert, don’t look at me, I don’t deserve you…”_ She fretted, tears streaming down her face. Because her worst nightmare had just come true.

“Are _ye daft lass?_ Ye think I really _didn’t know_ Peter wasna’ _mine?”_

He spoke in a soft, undangerous voice. His tone was no more than a humble hush.

Margarets lip wobbled. Her eyes wide in shock. _He already knew._ He already knew the secret she had been concealing from him all her life. 

 _“I don’t care. Mags_. I’ve never _cared he wasna' my own_. But I ne’er pressed ye because it wasn’ for me to know _why and how_ you were with child before we were wed, you could have been in love with a fella who died, or anything else like that….I don't know. And to hear _now…. That he raped ye?”_ He asked in sorrow.

Margaret breathed deep. Fortifying herself.

 _“I’m so sorr-.”_ She blurted out. But he cut her off. 

 _“No. Don’t be_ , Mags, _Don’t ye **dare**_ be sorry for what _that beast_ did to ye. I want to kill him with my bare hands for _the hurt_ he forced on ye.”

He warned her. Showing her his anger was not at all reserved for her. But all of it was reserved for the animal who had beaten her, broken her skin and her bones, and assualted her in the most shocking, brutal _and intimate_ of ways.

He crossed the room and took her shoulders in his hands, and wiped away her tears as he soothed to her in a soft voice;

“ _I don’t care. Mags_. I’ll cry it to the heavens til my _last breath if I have to._ _God, hear me now, I don’t care Peter isna’ my true son._ I **_am_** his father in his eyes, _in all the ways that truly matter._ I look into his little green eyes, and I love him more deeply than I’ll ever love _anything I_ hold dear, _save for ye_. I was there when he cried at night. I was there when he took his first steps, and spoke his first words. Had his first day of school, and I try my best to be there every single night when he want's a bedtime story to read it to him. I don't always succeed. _But I try._ And _I will_ be there til you and me _are creaking round_ this earth old and _ailing._ I sware on my life, Margaret Audrey McMurray, I _love him,_ _and you_ , for all _the rest_ of my days.” He swore gently.

_“Oh, Robert..”_

She cried in happiness, her speech muffled as she leaned up, stringing her arms around his neck as she hugged him with all of her might.

Elizabeth watched them embrace. A slight _tug_ of envy in her gut. There was a time her own dear husband used to love, and carress her like that. She was _jealous_ of their intimacy. _Their passion._ It made her _ache_ for her husband. For hot, _raw_ passion of her own  

Her hand pressed low, stroking over the baby. And she realised that she had not only done all this for Iris and Hugh, and maybe not even for Maragret and Robert by extension. But she had done it in the blind hopes it would restore _her_ into Thomas’s arms too. _Alas. No such luck with that venture as of yet..._

When they parted, after a quick passion filled kiss, Margaret turns back to Elizabeth, wiping her eyes once more as she gestures to the woman who had just instigated and been witness to a pivotal moment in their married life.

“Darling, may I introduce _the Duchess_ of Chatsworth, I _don’t believe_ you’ve met…” Margaret speaks, her cheeks pink from embarassment. _Elizabeth did half wonder if the woman forgot she was there._

Robert reached out and took her hand, grasping it firmly, and smiling warmly.

“Sorry to have, _er, dismissed_ your presence so easily, Your Grace…” He swallows in embarassment.

“Its no trouble. I called to deliver some very important artefacts belonging to your wife. She may do with them as she wishes. I was _merely_ a messenger.” Elizabeth told humbly.

“ _Nonsense_.” Margaret insists firmly.

“She is _the reason_ Audley is being brought to justice, after all these years of blackmail and deceit.” Margaret told.

“In that case, we are eternally your _humble servants Mi’Lady_. Would ye not stay and take a drink with us? After a day like this I do think I’ll be needing a Glenfiddich _or three_ in celebration…” He smiled jovially.

She smiled at the warm, drink flowing, hospitality of a scot.

“Your _very kind_ , Mr McMurray. But I’d best be _getting on home_. Give Peter my regards when he returns from his schooling. I’ll leave you two in peace...” Elizabeth smiles, rising to her feet.

“Thankyou for the _excellent_ tea.”

“I cannot _thank you enough_ for what you did.” Margaret smiles, embracing the woman in a hug once more.

Elizabeth smiles. And hugs her back. Because there was nothing else that needed to be said.

Before Margaret shows her to the door. They both watch as Robert scoops up the paper, and looks to his wife. She looks back, nods,  and smiles as she watches him cross to the roaring fire and dump it directly into the amber flames, watching it curl and crackle, and then dissolve away into nothing but crumbled, grey ash.

She left the McMurrays house with her heart feeling dreadfully light. Things, finally, were turning in her favour, and she was _enjoying every second_.

 

~

 

It was late evening at the Vicarage, and as the sun cast it’s ochre flames of mid afternoon to blaze through the leafy green trees, the grass and wildflowers of Hugh Everett’s garden are ruffled and fussed in the breeze. The man in question, was currently bringing Caspar back from his evening walk through the bramble woods, a quaint path he took every day with his canine. One he was sure to miss when he left Derbyshire.

He pushed open the creaking gate, and latched it behind him. Heading to the house. His face a picture of misery. He had nothing left to smile about, anyway.

“ _Hugh_.” Came a male voice calling from nearby.

The Reverend turned to see a very surprising figure stroll down the beaten track from the church across the way.

None other than the Duke of Chatsworth.

Hugh didn’t know how to compose himself as Thomas drew nearer and nearer. Last time he had been spoken too by the man it was in slanderous anger. He didn’t know what emotion he was to receive from him now...

“Your _Grace_.” Hugh spoke blandly. Awaiting to see _why_ he was here.

Thomas swallowed, blinking as he got closer. His hands in his pockets. He looked unsuited to have done a long country walk all the way from Chatsworth house. He wore no coat, simply all black, breeches, boots and a waistcoat the colour of coal, with a white shirt, a silver watch chain across his front, and a scarlet cravat left pulled loose around his neck. His hair was unruly, as if he had raked his hands through it many a time. And there were blades of grass clinging to his knees and his boots from the evening dew that had already begun to settle in the meadows.   

Truth be told, he looked like a man _locked_ _deep in_ conflict. His cobalt eyes were uncertain, and his expression was one of sorrow and shame.

“What can I do for you, Mi’Lord?” Hugh asked.

Thomas looked at him for a long second.

“Accept my apology. I behaved…  

Frankly, I behaved in a way no _Duke should ever behave_ the other night. I realise that now. I’ve been treating the people around me, whom I love dearly, _apallingly_. I’ve _ignored_ my wife. I _shouted_ horrible things at my niece, I accused you of the most stupid, awful things, and I may have _lost my best friend.. I…”_ He spoke, his face a picture of regret and sorrow.

That was when Hugh realised, he had come _to talk. To confess_ to his sins, meagre though they may have been. He wanted to atone. He recognised the look. He had seen it in men a hundred times before. And he'd see it a hundred times henceforth.

The look of Men who wanted to do better in their lives.

“When did I allow my _mothers hatred_ of Elizabeth, to _become stronger_ and more apparent than my blinding, gut gnawing, soul shaking, _passion_ for _her?_ ” He asks, speaking to himself.

“I let my sister lose the love of a good, honest, hard working man for one with money and rank. I should be _sent to hell_ for such a shallow abomination as that...." He paused. 

"That’s not what I want for her, I want her to be as happy as I was, married to the love of my life. I acted like _my mother_ would have, and if that isn’t the _most sobering thought_ of all, then.. _well.”_ He chuckled wryly.

“I’ve been a horrible, awful, poisonous, _fool._ Everett _.”_ He admitted. Looking off into the far distance.

Hugh remained silent. Listening to him rant. Not knowing what to say.

It was Thomas who then broke the silence… The Duke met his eyes and made a simple demand.

 _“Enlighten_ me…” He asked simply.

Hugh tilted his head in confusion.

“Enlighten you _in what_?” He enquires.

 _“Everything. Everything_  you told Elizabeth. About Audley.” He orders gently.

Hugh considered it, shifting from foot to foot for a second before he gave his answer.

“In that case, you’d better come in.” The Reverend speaks softly as he opened the creaking gate for the man.

After all, there was a lot to be discussed. 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judith, inspired by the sad tale of her fathers death to to medical neglect on the battlefields, vowed that no child should ever have to loose their father to infection or ill health. Ignoring the santicty of the rank she holds, much to her uncles displeasure, she will one day, grow up, and train to be a nurse. Inspired by her hero, Florence Nightingale on the profession of nursing.


	105. Mirthful Duchesses, Vicious Schemes, and the Loss of an Allie...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we know Caroline to be lying, for we all actually know where Thomas *Really* went... He went to go see Hugh, of course, But Caroline sought to taunt Elizabeth by telling him he went to have a liaison with Anabelle...

 

~

 

 

The Duchess raced along the hallway, still taking off her gloves, as she strode with hearty purpose towards her husband’s study. She almost skipped giddily as she hopped along. Why, she was practically floating on a cloud.

She smiled wide as she got to the door, biting her lip glady as she lunged for the handle and pushed the door open.

“ _Thomas_ …” She grinned, Looking into the room before her.

“I have the most _wonderful_ news…” She exclaimed, smirking with glee. Walking into the room, but when she saw who was sat behind the desk, it was most certainly not her six foot, onyx haired, blue eyed Duke.

It was _Caroline._

Sat regalliy in the study chair, as if she belonged there by _sheer right_ , behind Thomas’s desk.

Elizabeths face fell at the woman who looked across at the Duchess coolly. Her eyes gleaming frostily at the her, whose pursed lips and folded hands atop the desk didn’t give her an expression or stance of affability. _But then again,_ toward her daughter-in-law, she never did look _hospitable_.

“Thomas _isn’t here.”_ She told Elizabeth coldly.

“I had gathered that for myself. You are _no doppelganger_.” Elizbaeth fought back wittily.

“I _sent him_ out…” She told the Duchess.

“ _Now,_ let me have a _wild stab_ in the dark as to _where,_ you sent him. To the _Hastings residence_ by any chance?”

Caroline sneered.

“Is that _envy I can detect_  in your tone, Elizabeth? In knowing that he loves another girl far _more_ than you…?” She asks cruelly.

She chuckled – _she couldn’t help it._ She laughed in disbelief before she could stop the sound leaping up and out, past her teeth. 

“This _callous vendetta_ you’ve levelled against me, Caroline…” She paused shaking her head. Looking at the woman sat before her, examining her as if she was no better than _muck_ on her _shoes_.

“Where does _such fierce hatred_ of me stem from? Did I _wrong_ you in a past life?” She asks with bewilderment.

Carolines face flinched, as if a bad, vile taste had invaded her tongue. Her face scrunched foully as she glared at the woman opposite her. She rose to her feet, her hands still barced flat on the surface of the desk.

“You are not _worthy_ enough for _my_ son.” She hissed lowly.

" _He_ doesn't _seem_ to think that..." She held out. 

Caroline scoffs. 

"What would _he know?_ He is a _boy_. A _boy_ to be _steered_ and _guided_..." She leered. 

Elzabeth frowned. 

" _No_. He _isn't_. He has a warm, generous heart and though he may have acted poorly. He is _his own man._  Not your _puppet_. He was _my charming, wonderful, man. My husband._ And you tore him away from me. You _had no right..._." The Duchess shrilled. 

Caroline glared _harder_ \- if that were possible. 

"I had _the only, right_." She insists. 

“I grew up in little better than _poverty_. My father was cruel, and valued the flutter and risk of gaming above the honour and fulfillment of his _own family_. We could scarcely afford the _food_ we needed to eat. We had no servants, we had to _burn furniture_ just to stay warm, and there was a very real possibility that my own father would be hauled off to debtors prison for _bankruptcy_. Our situation then, _was bleak_ at best and it was all down _to me_ , _and me alone_ to change it. They say being tested makes you stronger, it made us _miserable_. Then I met Theodore, and I knew he was _the one_ for me…. “ She paused, her voice becoming soft as she choked on her words.

Elizabeth was no fool. She could hear the change in Caroline's voice. It become warm, and soft, unlike the usual knifes edge that it was ore familiar with. She watched the woman snap out of her brief venture into sentimentality.

“ _I knew_ he was the one… who could _change_ my families fortunes. I courted him, and he proposed. Our chances _finally_ began to look up. I was a titled woman, and I loved my husband. My dearest, darling husband who was _more in love_ with his children than he was with _me._ I adored him more _than anything_ I’ve known in my years, and he was _cold, and cruel_ , and made it quite clear our love was to be o _ne sided_.” She spat.

“You have _no title_. You are _common stock_. An _upstarting harlot_ if ever I saw one. What _gives you_ the _right_ to be _so happy_ in your marriage when I was _miserable in my own?”_ She shouted, her words scraping painfully through her throat as she yelled.

“I saw how he looked at you…. How he _smiled like a fool_ when you drew near, how he couldn’t take his _eyes_ off you. _Enchanted_ , beguiled by you. _Like you were heaven on earth…_ and you were good, and kind, and _beloved_ by Iris and the girls – they too can’t _stand me_. Why _should, you_ , the untilted, humble, unpriveleged , _wallflower_ , be allowed to be so un-utterably _happy?_ ” She asked. Elizabeth could sense she _didn’t_ require an answer.

 _She pitied her_. _God help her_. She looked at the frenzied blue eyes, and listened to the pain filled woes of the woman opposite her. And she saw no more than a jilted girl who was _lashing out_ because of her own internal suffering and her bad fortunes in her life.

_It was sad, and it was pitiable, she almost felt sorry for her. Had she not been so cruel, her pity, perhaps, would have been slightly more powerful – but as it was…_

“ _Why_ Anabelle?” Elizabeth asks after a second or two.

Caroline snorted in amusement

“That _pathetic_ bint has always been _overly fond_ of him. stupid insufferable girl. Though to _her credit,_ She _worked wonders_ in driving a wedge between the two of you.” She told

“So you would rather have Thomas suffer, needlessly wretched and miserable, rather than allow him to be happy in his own marriage, just because _your_ husband didn’t _care for you?”_ She asked.

“As I said… Why should _you_ be allowed _merriment_ …” She repeated flatly.

“ _And Iris_?” Elizabeth asked in sorrow and disbelief.

“Why destroy _Iris’s happiness_ too. What did _she do_ to deserve pain? Just when she had found her once joy once again… It took her _all these years_ of suffering to get over loosing John. She had _finally_ risked her heart to another man, a humble _, honest man_ , and you _ripped_ them apart too…” Elizabeth asked, seeking answers.

“Theodore let her marry an _Innkeepers son_. _My_ only _daughter_ … _A Lady_. She could have wed a Lord, or an Earl. A Viscount, or Baron. But instead, she is wed to _a commoner_. Not fit _to look_ at her, let _alone court_ her. But, My husband overruled my objections. And _off she went_ , going and having _her spoilt_ , obstinate, working class _children,_ with him. To know that my grandchildren would be that _social climbers_ offspring caused me such _acute pain_.” She growled fiestily.

“John was a soldier. _Yes_ , he may have been from humble riches you seem to so _disapprove_ of, but from what I understand he was a hardworking, sensible, caring man, and he _was devoted_ to your daughter with a passion unlike _any other_ I‘ve seen. He loved those girls _fiercely_. And if you can call Edith and Judith spoilt, and obstinate, then that goes to prove that _you do not know them at all_. Judith is just about _the sweetest_ child in all of the British Isles, she is polite, and has the biggest, most innocent imagination any child could wish to have. And _rightly so_ , I would not _change a thing_ about her. And Edith…. _Edith’s hunger_ for literature is, and always will be, a _very fine_ thing. She _learns_ through her books, she _grows_ with each title she reads. She may not be travelled and knowledgeable in every _smidgeon_ of society ettiquette. But I would not change that for _the world either_. She is thoughtful, and warmhearted - like her father – and she has more intelligence, brains and knowledge in her little finger than most people are granted in their entire bodies.” Elizabeth defended.

“And Iris is _the kindest_ , gentlest soul imaginable. And for you, _her own mother_ , rewarding her weakness and family devotion to you with pain and heartbreak. Is the most _ignoble, despicably_ cruel _thing_ I can think of.” She chided, her voice rising to a harsh shout.

“Whilst I am under this roof, I will strive to ensure you and my son are not so easily united, and are made _to realise_ you are _not made_ to be. And I will keep Iris seperated from that mulish, smug Reverend, also. It is _what is best_ for the both of them…”

“To be _miserable?_ ” Elizabeth snaps.

“Miserable. _But respectable_.” Caroline offers.

Elizabeth shook her head at the foulness of the woman who she was so unfortunate as to be related too. Then she thought of Audley, and the Marquis’s assurance to publicly come forward to ensure that the Earl would be disgraced and made to face the magnitudes of his evil actions.

Elizabeth smiled. Before she stepped behind her, heading for the door.

“I wouldn’t get _too comfortable_ being in this house, under this roof, if I were you, Caroline. Word has it you’re about to loose one of _your biggest_ allies in your vicious scheme. _Then_ _where_ will you be?” She asks with a kind smile.

She smiles gleefully at Caroline before she slips out of the door.

Elizabeth headed back to the grand staircase. Not realising that the connecting door to her own study had been left open, and someone was privy to her and Carolines entire conversation. After all…

Iris only went into Elizabeths study to put a vase of fresh flowers on the desk…

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is no surprise to all at Chatsworth that Thomas now shares the burden of his workload with his wife. As neither of them could bare being idle. Being the daughter of a mathematics professor, means that she is very adept at sums, and can help him keep books, and look over accounts. And also upon her first few days at Chatsworth as the new mistress of the house, she herself –with only a few pointers from Ethel – took to the kitchens, and personally made baskets stuffed full of baked goods, bottles of wine, and other such homely gifts to deliver to the tenants on Chatsworth’s land. She personally delivered them aswell, with Thomas by her side. Both the baskets and the new Duchess was received by all the tenants with a hearty warm welcome. Especially as she and Thomas then gladly lended a hand with helping some renter’s construct and erect a new barn. Everyone on Chatsworth’s land, percieves she is the kindest, and best Duchess they’ve ever known. – certainly better than Caroline had ever been.


	106. Ousting the Mother, Proposals, and Happy Endings...

 

 

 

~ Iris's Dress ~

~ Elizabeth's Dress ~

 

~

 

 

The next morning, a bright new day dawned. Clear and true, a powder blue sky was ungoverned, and cloudless. The sun shone merrily on Derbyshire, and for the first time in a long while, Elizabeth awoke with the canny, cheery sense that everything would be alright again, _and soon._ Which was a wonderful thought to behold.

She rises, dresses and heads with a light heart and a smile, to the breakfast room. Hopefully, she could find Thomas today, and give him the news, _if,_ that was _,_ he wished to hear it.

She leaves her bedchamber, and shuts the door behind her. She strode merrily along the sun drenched, golden hallways, the colour of honey in the early morning sun. She’d just gotten to the grand staircase when a small voice calling her name, echoed up to the grand ceiling behind her. She turned, holding aloft her red velvet skirts, to see Iris making her way down towards her, watching her steps as she held up her white laced skirts. It was a beautiful dress, and she had linked a grey tassled shawl to come about her shoulders. Her ravens hair was not as it usually was, today it tumbled down her back, half secured up by a silver diamond studded clip to the back of her head. Silver droplet earrings sparkled in her earlobes, and she looked jovial.

“ _Iris_ …” Elizabeth smiled.

She watched her sister-in-law come gracefully down the stairs to where she stood, in the large marbel archway that looked through to the Raphealite ceiling hallway of their home. Iris smiled at Elizabeth, and they walked, arm in arm to head down the main stairs, looking at the sunshine which drowned the foyer before them from the large windows that flanked the wall to their left, giving them a fine view, from where they stood, of the lush, emerald green privet hedges that made up the west gardens to the house.

“It feels brighter today, do you not think?” Iris asks the Duchess.

“Indeed it does…” Elizabeth agrees. “It feels like a warm, midsummers day.” She offers.

“Elizabeth..” Iris begins.

“Please allow me to apologise for what I said to you the other day, in my heartbreak and sorrow, it was _not kind_ of me to say _such_ awful _things_. And I have felt positively wretched about what I said ever since…” She spoke gently.

“You’ve _nothing_ to apologise for…” Elizabeth assured her.

Iris’s face was one of polite torment at hearing this.

“I spoke out of turn, in a manner of which I am ashamed.” She tells.

“Your heart had just been broken, and the man you loved forbidden from your sight. Iris, anyone would have _been perfectly at_ liberty to say _things, ten times worse_ than what you said to me. I hold _no_ grudge. In fact, I grant you leave _to be twice_ as callous on the next occasion..” She japes.

Iris smiled, but her eyes looked saddened. Like lacklustre coins of silver time had let grow dull.

“I don’t think there _will be_ a _next_ time, Elizabeth. I’m certain I don’t want to risk loosing my heart _again_. In all honesty, I don’t think I could _bare_ it.” She spoke in sorrow.

“That certainly is a _truly great_ pity Iris…”

Came a bellowing voice above them. Radiating from the marble archway. Elizabeth smiled. She’d know that husky, jovial, rasping voice anywhere. Trust him to ambush them whilst their backs were turned. That was the teasing tone of the man she _adored… her husband. The_ _delightful_ creature she married..

Both ladies turned to see who else? But Thomas stood at the top of the grand stairs. His hands folded behind his back, his blue eyes shining cunningly, his stance playful and his lips formed a straight, but slightly amused line. He had dressed today in a sapphire blue waistcoat, black breeches and boots, as ever he often wore. His fathers engraved watch was in his pocket, the chain glittered, linked across his front. And the wine coloured cravat knotted around his neck made his eyes look brilliantly lurid.

Both women turned to look at him. Elizabeth couldn’t help concealing the smile that tugged at her lips at the sight of him. _This was the man she’d married..._ Not the wretched, _noxious_ creature who she’d been dealing with for the past few weeks…

“You look very well today, dear sister.” He offers simply. “Your timing is excellent _. For your_ suitor will be arriving _shortly.”_ He informed her loftily.

 _“Audley?”_ Iris asks, her face falling. “I don’t think I _can face_ him, Thomas.” She resists weakly.

Elizabeth’s attention was currently turned towards the gardens. There was a sight there far greater to be seen than the beauty of the flowers, and the sculpted hedgerows. It was the sun haloing a certain figure that caught her attention.

Her heart soared, and she smiled wide… _Things really were looking up after all…_

“ _Iris_ …”

Elizabeth smiles smugly. Her sister-in law turned and looked at her. Forcing Elizabeth to put a hand to her shoulder, and point her to look in the direction of the gardens. Where stood...

The Reverend Hugh Everett.

Iris went stock still with realisation as she saw who was now walking down the west lawn. Dressed simply in an overcoat, a white shirt, undressed with no cravat. Brown breeches and his shabby, brown walking boots. His hair a rusty red in the sun, and his eyes a churning, seafoam green. He wasn’t titled. He didn’t boast such wealth. But to Iris, in that moment, he looked like the finest gentleman she’d _ever_ laid eyes on. Even including her first love.

“Iris…” Thomas spoke as he walked down the stairs to come closer to her.

“I did you a great _misdeed._ And for this, I will be _eternally_ ashamed _. I didn’t try and stop you_. I was stubborn, blind to the truth. I didn’t try and act in a way that would best benefit you. I didn’t try and dissuade you from marrying the most deplorable man on earth whom you could never love, nor he you. For this fault of mine, I am _truly, truly, sorry.”_

He spoke earnestly to her. His eyes sorrowful sponges of regret. And he reached out to take her hands in his as they stood there.

She tilted her head, heartened at her twins honest words.

 _“Any man_ , who has done _so much_ for me, and my girls, as you have, Thomas. Does not need _a single shred_ my forgiveness. Especially not when he does the _right thing_ by us all in the end.” She cried, tears were gathering in her eyes, like liquid pewter, as Thomas smiled at his sister.

He places a kiss of respect to both her hands that were still captured in his.

“Go to him. Irie. Be _happy_ , and never, _ever,_ let him go.” He urges.

She smiles, before she picks up her skirts, and rushes down the grand stairs, coming to the terrace doors, which she pulls open, sunlight and cool morning air came floding in, and she strides out to see her Suitor halt where he was coming up the steps in the lawn to come closer to her.

Tears fell from Iris’s eyes. And she walked quicker than was ladylike to get to him, until she came but a few inches from his persons. Looking up at the face of the man she loved, as he looked down at her with longing and love.

“Iris…” He smiles.

“Please, _let me speak_. Let me, say how _… I..”_ She stammered. The look in his eyes making her giddy.

He shook his head, coming closer, pressing their bodies together as he placed both his hands on either side of her neck.

“Loosing you, Iris. Was _the_ most _painful_ thing that’s ever happened to me. And I will not allow that occasion to repeat itself. Will you do me the honour of marrying me, Iris Kenworthy. Because….My heart is still _entirely yours,_ if you’ll have it?…”

He cries, stroking his thumbs across her skin as she holds his arms, and savours the mirth and heady delight that his nearness caused her body.

 _“Gladly.”_ She cries with a smile.

He held her face in his hands as he kissed her so tenderly she feared her heart might burst. Her arms folded around him as they embraced, as his locked around the small of her back, feeling the glorious love of his life beneath his palms. Knowing he would never be sad and out of love again.

Back inside the house, Elizabeths heart was hopping and skipping around her chest in gladness as she watched Iris and Hugh reunite outside in the gardens. Her attention was turned to the man behind her as Thomas softly spoke her name.

 _“Ah,_ Those _early_ moments of love.” Elizabeth smiled looking at the both of them.

“Nothing _compares_ to it…” He agrees.

Thomas was looking at them too, watching their happiness. He too smiled fondy at the sight, before his eyes switched and landed to look longingly on the back of his wifes neck, watching the sunlight sneak through her copper curls, framing her as if she were an angel of the lord fallen to earth.

“Elizabeth, _my darling…_ ” He whispered in a hush so soft, she almost didn’t hear it. She turned back to face him.

He stood a little closer to her, his hand linking to the side of her waist, and the other gently stroking a carress down her lily white cheek. His voice was thick and tender with love and emotion, and he was looking at the glorious woman before him, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom to deserve her. On touching her skin again, he struggled to speak. The passion he bore for her, the all consuming love, nearly _choked_ him. And he was reminded how much, _how_ _painfully,_ he had missed her. Even having her in his arms again was nothing short of heaven.

“Let me start, by saying, I _will never_ let another person come between you and I, ever again. So long as I live and draw breath. I’ve been _so blind, and stupid_ , and I think if this experience, rotten as it may have been, has taught me _anything_. It’s that when the love of your life tells you the truth, then you do _not so readily dissmiss_ those claims. And that _god awful_ night at the ball...”

He shook his head, dropping his eyes in shame. She cupped his cheek and lifted his face to look at her once more.

“ _I Love you,_ Thomas kenworthy. Many millions have spoken those three words before. But believe me when I say _none have ever_ been said with _such fierce_ justice.” She informs him.

He smiles at that, his breath skipping as he listened to her say such words.

“We _got lost,_ for a little while my love. I got _so wrapped_ up in your mothers hatred that it was all I could do not to let It drown me. I couldn’t _look past_ it to remember _two_ people were involved in the scandal that night. Not _just myself_. I was _just as_ blind as stubborn as you, darling, I assure you.” She promised.

His hand stroked down the back of her coiffed hair.

“Lets agree, for the sake of our child. That we’ll never allow anyone to destroy what we have. I selflessly nearly destroyed the most precious thing in the world to me.” He told her. “You are _my life_ , Elizabeth Kenworthy, and getting up each morning and _loving_ you, _being married_ to you is _my finest_ privelege. I _never_ want to be rid of it.” He promises, leaning closer.

She smiles, and then she’s _lost_ to him. _Lost in his arms..._

She melts as he suddenly tugs her close by her neck and her waist and kisses her so hungrily, her legs buckle, but his strong arm around her waist ensure she is kept upright and doesn’t topple down the stairs. Her arms come up to clutch at his shoulders as he steals all the breath from her lungs with the skill of his kiss. Tears dribbled from her eyes as she forgot how heavenly it felt to be in his arms once more. He squeezed her even closer, moaning low in his throat as he pulled his lovely mouth off her own.

“And _no more_ seperate bedchambers either, _I beg of you_ …I _want you_ in _my arms, coming undone,_ tonight, Elizabeth”

He rasps, bringing his arms around her as he nuzzled into her neck. Smelling the familiar scent of lavender in her hair, the perfume she often dabbed on her soft, wonderful neck.

She chuckles. Holding onto him tight as they hugged. She shut her eyes and smiled blissfully as her fingers raked through his obsidian hair, long and unruly. _That beautiful onyx mane she adored to tug her hands through._ The aftershave on his skin, the familiar heat and musk of her husbands fragrance washing over her, as she enjoyed and savoured _every second._

 _“Yes_ , Thomas.” She smiles widely as they hug. Smirking at how everything _could finally_ get back to normal. She’d be in love with her husband again, Iris and Hugh would be happy. Hugh would stay in Derbyshire for good. Caroline would be proved wrong, and The Earl of Audley would finally get what he deserved. Though _hell_ for that man, would still be far _too lenient_ a sentence for his crimes.

Footsteps clattering madly through the house draws their attentions, and both Thomas and Elizabeth, still in one anothers hold, turn and see Edith and Judith sprint at breakneck speed through to them, peering up at the Duke and Duchess for answers. Elizabeth smiles and points them towards the gardens. But, apparantly she didn’t need too. For at that moment, Iris and Hugh, glided through the doors arm in arm.

Edith looked at her mother, and then across to Hugh. He patted Iris's arm, linked over his, before he let her arm go, and slid towards the girls, coming slowly down onto one knee in front of Edith. In a way that made Elizabeth smile and laugh. And Thomas smirked at the sight too.

He gathered Judith and Edith to stand in his spread open arms, as he looked up at them both. The two of them now smiling, Judith was giggling madly, wondering what he was doing. Iris stroked his shoulder in tenderness and love as she stood behind him.

“Edith, Judith. I know, I will _never_ replace your father, and nor would I want too. But if you’ll permit me… Will the both of you allow me to be _your stepfather?_ And fulfill the role of looking after the both of you girls, and your mother, _as best_ as I am _able?”_ He asks them.

There was a seconds silence as they both did nothing but beam at him. Edith was the first to react, She threw herself into the embrace of his arms. And he hugged her tight. Judith following her elder sister’s lead, as Edith hugged him to the left, Judith attacked the right. And Hugh’s arm folded around her too. He held them close. And was rewarded with Judith leaning up and placing a sloppy kiss to his cheek, before she grinned her _adorable_ little grin at him.

Thomas and Elizabeth, hand in hand, walked down the stairs to join them all. Coming to the tiled floors. Seeing that as they drew close, Iris now wore a large cluster of a emerald cut ring, glistening with sapphires and a gold band, on her ring finger. The plain gold band that used to sit there was now on her middle finger of her opposite hand.

Edith spun around to look at her Uncle and Aunt, seeing their ecstatic eyes and smile, she knew they too, had enjoyed their loving reunion. And gone was the misery of the days that had come before them. Judith chuckled in glee as Hugh came to stand, hoisting the little one onto his hip as she continued to hug him, enclosing Iris in his other arm, holding two of _his girls_ tight.

Edith crossed and took her aunt’s hands.

“You’re _an amazing woman,_ Aunt Elizabeth. And If I can grow up _and be half_ as _good_ as you, I shall consider that my _greatest virtue._.” She smiled.

Elizabeth pulled her close and hugged her, before she whispered something in Edith’s ear. The truth that this had not been of her doing. Edith pulled away, shocked, and looked to Thomas. Who looked at her with a sheepish smile.

 _“You_ did this?” She asked in surprise.

“I helped. _A little.”_ Thomas smiled.

Edith ran full pelt and hugged the tall man, her arms clasped around his middle.

 _“I’m sorry.”_ She smiled into her uncles waistcoat.

Thomas gladly held her back as lovingly as she did him.

“Not as _sorry as I am_. _Forgive me_ for being a world class _prat? Ed?”_ He asks.

 _“Of course.”_ She smiles as she parts from her uncle. He took her dainty hand and kissed it with a wink.

“I pledge a promise that you can keep your _library exactly_ as it is, and visit _anytime_ after you move to the Vicarage.” He guarantees.

Elizabeth, Iris, Hugh and Edith all chuckled at hearing that. They were a happy family again, at last. _Apparantly, All was well, that ends well._

“ _TTTHHHOOMMMAAASSSSS!!!”_ Came the shriek that rang through the house like a dragon’s screech.

_Well. All was… almost….well._

“ _Ah_.” Thomas remebered like a comical afterthought “ _Yes. Uh,_ In case _I forgot_ to mention..” He smirked.

Elizbaeth grinned at him. “What have you _gotten up to?”_ She asked.

He winked in a most rakish and sultry way at her. It made her cheeks flush red with heat, if only _a little. O’ How she had missed this man…_

They were all about to get a very loud, sqwauking explanation from the woman herself. As she appeared, in her dressing gown and nightdress underneath no less, with her hair unruly and unkempt. Slippers on her feet, as she clutched the Castleton Tribute in her hands. Obviously having just woken up, a maid took a tea tray to her room every morning, and This morning, Thomas had instructed the giggling housemaid to place the newspaper next to his mother’s pot of coffee. It had been a rather rude wake up call, considering what the front page news was.

She stormed and stomped down the stairs to the merry band of people stood gaggled in happiness in the sunshine. Thomas folds his arms behind his back again and surveys his livid looking mother with a wide, cheeky grin on his face.

“I order you to _explain_ yourself. What _the hell_ is _this atrocity?”_ She asked, waving the paper in his face, her voice vile.

Thomas leaned over and took a glance at the headlines, a couple of which read;

 _“CHEATING DOWAGER OF CHATSWORTH’s AFFAIR EXPOSED, KENWORTHY FAMILY ASHAMED!”_ and nect to that was _“EARL OF AUDLEY’S HEIR IMPRISONED FOR CRIMES AND COWARDICE”_

“ _Yes?_ ” Thomas asked her chirpily.

“Where _the hell_ did _this_ come from? _No one knew_ about the _affair_. Not _your father_. Not _You._ _Not anyone!”_ She snarled.

“You’d better ask your _daughter_ , Mother.” Thomas smiled gleefully.

Caroline turned, slack mouthed, and shocked, to Iris. Who stood glaring at her mother, looking the most vicious she had ever looked. Her eyes were hardened like cold stones at her relative. And she crossed her arms and met Caroline head on. Finally standing up to her biggest tormentor.

“You left _hundreds_ of your old letters strewn across your writing desk when you left, Mother. I happened to be sorting them one day, and I found evidence, _letter after letter,_ that you had an affair with one of Father’s friends, Lord Hellmond. And also that you told our father about it repeatedly, but he did _nothing_ to stop you. He _adored you_ , and you repaid him in the most _foul_ manner imaginable…” Iris seethes.

“So. What your told me yesterday was a lie, then Caroline? Theodore had a _damn good reason_ to love his children more than you. You were _betraying him_ with another… No wonder he _couldn’t_ _love you._ ” She spoke lowly.

Caroline stood, suddenly looking _very small_ and _unconfident_ all of a sudden.

“Iris came _to me_ yesterday, and told me of what she overheard _you_ telling Elizabeth. Making us all miserable. And that she wished for you to be _turned out_ of this house _as inelgeantly_ as we could manage. So we clubbed our resources together, Ophelia chimed in too, and I sent a letter to the Editor in chief of the Chatsworth Tribute. Chock full of _every indescretion_ you have heaped on us over the years. If you turn over the page, theres some very interesting facts about your being disinherited, and disowned by your family. Apparantly, now you haven't a _penny_ to your name. And I imagine _all_ of Derbyshire shall know of _it by now…_ ” Thomas spoke coolly.

“And _our good_ family friend, the Marquis of Renford has _generously_ helped us by spreading word of your disinheritance around London and his good friends in Shropshire. So now, everyone who is _anyone knows,_ if you go and even  _try_ and latch onto creditors, that your situation is _a bleak one at best_. Seeing as now, we have publicly _renounced_ you from the family _.”_ Thomas leered.

Caroline looked up at him, her face a picture of emotion. She looked ready to burst into tears. She scrunched the paper up in her hands, throwing it to the floor.

“You _are worse_ than _your father_ , Thomas. He was a _cruel, cold_ man.” She snarled at him.

 _“To you_ , perhaps. _But now I can see why_ …” Thomas glared down at her.

“You come near my Elizabeth, any of the children we have, Or Iris and Hugh ever again. I will have you thrown in _prison to rot in poverty and misery._ Don’t you _ever_ _dare_ test me again, because quicker than a snap of my fingers, I could make your _life hell on earth_. Do you understand me?” He asked her with a cold, loveless tone.

“You _can’t..”_ She cried, her voice wobbling.

“I _already have.”_ He snapped.

She glared foully at him. Advancing closer, before suddenly, out of nowhere, a wooden cane halted Caroline in her path, and they all looked to see Ophelia with a face like a thunderstorm and poison bottled in her beady eyes. Pointing the end of her cane at Caroline, standing tall and looking as strong as Elizabeth _had ever_ seen her.

“Go ahead, _try_ and strike him. _I dare you…”_ The old woman roared in a tone that would have made Napolean quake in his boots.

Thomas smirked at his great aunt. _She truly was a force of nature to go against._

Ophelia lowered her cane as Caroline shrunk away.

“Get _out_ of this house, _you foul old bitch.”_ Ophelia snarled.

“ _Couldn’t_ have said it better myself, Aunt.” Thomas surveyed the woman stonily. Arms crossed over his chest.

 _“Get out.”_ He stated simply, his voice was _simply horrible_.

Caroline scrambled away up the stairs. Looking insulted, and a little scared. It was satisfying for all stood at the bottom to watch her go. Subsequently, Violet, Benedict, Araminta and Felicity had come out of the dining room to see what all the ruckus was about. And stayed to enjoy the whole spectacle.

 _“Well,_ bless my soul…” Araminta chuckled as they watched the Dowager stomp away up the stairs.

“Life in Derbyshire is certainly _never dull.”_ She remarked.

“It certainly has it’s perils…” Violet smiled, looking at the happy family across from them.

“And its _adventures_ …” Carlton smiled down at her.

“And _its romantic_ happy ending…” Felicity grinned.

“That too, _my love…”_ Araminta sighed. “ _That too_.”

It was then that Richard Farrow surfaced behind them all, finally retreating from the gentlemans parlour where he had been holed up for most of his visit. Enjoying a good book, peace and quiet, and good sups of brandy when the mood took him.

He walked up behind them, clutching the last book in the volume of the rise and fall of the roman empire. He had just finished it, it was a _very_ riveting read.

“ _Well…”_ He smiled, seeing they turned to face him, and he looked across them all.

“What did _I miss?_ ” He asked.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

Not long after, some staff had quite literally _chucked_ Caroline’s luggage onto the coach. It was ready to depart, taking with it, one disgraced Dowager.

Elizabeth didn’t think she had ever seen her staff _so eager_ to pack someones bags in all her life. But within a half an hour, Caroline had composed herself, not bid any goodbyes, only Elizabeth and Thomas now stood on the doorstep to see her off.

Iris had declined, spending the afternoon writing letters to inform her friends of her marriage. Edith had simply said _‘Good riddance’_ when they asked her. Ophelia had simply offered them a string of wild expletive _curse_ words as her answer.

A couple of footmen were now reluctantly helping load the last of her trunks, and Caroline sat in the carriage, checking her reflection in her compact. Ignoring her relatives.

Thomas, Elizabeth knew, was only out here to smile at the carriage in its wake as it took her far away, to where, _he didn’t care_. He didn’t _even ask_. She’d probably slink back off abroad again as she usually did in times of ruination. _She was good at doing that..._

“You’re smile is _positively unnatural_ , darling.” Elizabeth warned him

“I’m waiting for the carriage to dissapear down the drive before I pop open the bottle of 1813 Moet we have down in the cellar…” He told her. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. It was either _now_ , or when the _baby_ is born…” He grins.

“Point _taken…_ ” Elizabeth laughed. Rolling her eyes at his immaturity.

The footmen peeled away, and the carriage lurched down the gravel. Elizabeth watched it with a curiously and unexpectedly heavy heart.

“You really don’t want _to know_ where she’s going?” Elizabeth asked, her arms folded across herself as the footmen, looking very happy and relieved, slipped back into the house past them.

“Not in _the slightest_. They can dump the _old hag_ off In a ditch to starve as a penniless pauper for _all I_ care. She _nearly cost_ me my darling wife and child, and she betrayed my father and my sister, were she not related to me _by blood_ , I’d have done _far worse_ than merely kick her out of the house….” He promised.

Elizabeth smiled, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

“ _Please know,_ that what I am _about_ to do is for the sake of my conscience… So I may sleep _peacefully tonight_ …” She told him.

He frowned at her. Before his eyes turned promiscious.

“You won’t be getting _much sleep_  tonight a _s it is_ …” He growled lustfully in a promise at her.

She gave him a look as she started down the drive. She called to Ramsey to stop the coach, unfolding the two pieces of paper out of her pocket, holding onto her blue shawl as she tried to run in her impossible velvet dress.

The coach slowed, and she came to the window, and tapped on it. Caroline merely glanced at her. Hesitating for a second, before she leaned over and unlocked it.

“What could you _possibly_ have to say to me _now?”_ She snapped

Elizabeth would have _none_ of it.

“Will you put _that forked_ tongue back behind _those fangs_ of yours for one second, _and listen to me._.”

She demanded. Seeing that shocked her into silence, she sat, looking straight ahead, holding her regal head high as if Elizabeth wasn’t even there _at all…_

 _“This_ …” She handed the woman a shred of paper through the window...

“…Is the address of some of my late mothers friends in Paris. Madame DeuVerney. She is landlady to some apartments near the Rue Du Charonne. She might be able to help you find a place to live. And this is also the address of my good friend Monsieur Rodier. He owns a ladies fashion house, he owes me a favour, he could find you _work.”_ She told the woman.

Caroline didn’t move for a second. Before she snatched the papers from Elizabeth’s hands. She glanced down at them.

“Just so you _know_ …” Elizabeth began, looking at the sullen woman.

“You are, without a doubt, the _worst_ mother I’ve _ever_ seen…”

“If _that’s all_ you have to say I don-“ She gabbled sulkily.

“Let _me finish would you?_ …” Elizabeth barks

“You are, without a doubt, _the worst_ mother and grandmother I have ever seen. But, I will not allow you to be such a _rotten_ grandmother to mine and Thomas’s baby if I can help it. _So_. If you can decide you can accept the fact _that I am_ his _wife,_ and _will always be_ his wife. If you will be civil to the child, and any others we may have, if you decide you will be _pleasant_ and acquiescent towards us, then we will _welcome you back_ into _this house_ with open arms. And there will be a place for you here. _If not,_ then…” She trailed off.

_“Bon Voyage.”_

She finished, withdrawing from the carriage and walking back up the drive and back to her husband. Folding the shawl tighter about herself.

“Wait…” Caroline called softly.

Elizabeth looked back at her.

“You are… _very noble._ You have the noblest, and most classy countenance I have ever seen in someone not born into entitlement.” She reluctantly spelled out.

Elizabeth inclined a nod at her.

“Careful, that almost _sounded nice of_ you..” She warned.

Caroline twitched her lip, is may have been a smile. Elizabeth wouldn’t liked to have _said for sure._

“Give Rodier _my love_.”

She smiles, walking away. As the carriage set off for good once more.

Elizbaeth walked back to Thomas. Who tugged her close, into his chest, enveloping his arms around her. Kissed her forehead, and held her close. They watched from the doorstep until the carriage was out of sight down the long drive.

“Is it me, or does the sky seem… _lighter_ to you?...” He asked.

Elizabeth chuckled, hugging him tight.

“The birds… _they’re singing again_ …” He japed.

“Shut up _you fool…”_

Elizabeth chortled through her words. Looking up at the handsome man who she loved with all her heart. A couple of legs, some arms, and all her vital organs too.

“The children may laugh again…. The church bells ring out in joy…” He spoke in good natured comedy.

Elizabeth looked up at him, stroking the side of his face with her hands. He held her wrist in place agaist his face, and kissed it. Looking down at her like she was a bit of heaven that had fallen to earth.

“How about, Shut up _you fool_ , and _kiss me?”_ She asks.

He smiled, looking lustful as he leans closer.

 _“That’ll_ do _it…”_ He rasps, looking sinfully attractive to her eyes. Before leaning in and kissing her sweetly. Tugging her closer. Wrapping his arms around her. He sighed and moaned in contentment when she pulled away.

“So…” Thomas smiled. “ _Too early_ for bed yet?” He asks as his hands slide south and grip her bottom, forcing her to gasp breathlessly and press her body further into his.

“A little, it is _only noon_. You wicked scoundrel.” She smiles.

He didn't look _overmuch offended_ by her words.

“Besides…” She smiles, tugging on his lapels.

“We, have _a wedding_ to plan…” She beams.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugh Everett, worries that he would not be good enough, or rich enough to keep Iris in the style she is accustomed. But, Iris does not care for such grand houses, or frivolous parties. She would be happy to be a mistress to a small Parish, owning her own, cozy little home. Little does he know, that the Marquis of Renford is aware, via Elizabeth, that Hugh was left Audley’s Fathers fortune, and the estate. But, The Marquis recently brought the entire old Audley estate, Rosestone Manor, in Hampshire, booted out the fat, gout ridden, greedy lord who owned it. And will gift it to Hugh Everett, and his bride-to-be, as penance for Audley ruining and blackmailing him and Margaret for half their lives.


	107. Thorough Marital Reunions, Longing and Diamonds in Moonlight...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So. In this chapter we have;
> 
> \- Sex. Sex. And some more sex...  
> \- Adorable Dukes being adorable.  
> \- Little bit of love/fluff.
> 
> Fluff/Smut/Adorableness. 
> 
> Do please let me know what you think of the heavy combination of all three...

 

~

 

 

Even later that night, it was long after the sky had grown dark, and dinner had lasted twice as long as it would have usually. Due to the fact that everyone had wanted to take a drink, and be merry in the departure of both Audley and Caroline. And everyone at the table raised a glass to Hugh and Iris, who both blushed enormously at that loving testament.

After an excellent dinner, Thomas retired the staff early, and told them to have a bowl of punch to celebrate. And that they could have tomorrow afternoon off.

Everyone lolled casually about in the parlour, some played cards, Edith tonight, left her books aside and sat smiling with her new Stepfather. Iris then played the piano with Hugh by her side turning the pages for her. Violet sung, Benedict joined in on the vocals too – _standing on a table_ – until Ophelia whacked his shins with her cane to get him down and for making ‘ _a god awful racket that will have all the dogs in Derbyshire howling’_ Araminta even gave in to all their presistance, and sung an aria from her old days as a songstress on the stages of Europe.

_Everyone was happy tonight._

The candlelight seemed merrier, the wine _flowed_ and _flowed and flowed_ some more. As did the laughter and the smiles. Elizabeth sat there, beaming, _all night_  surrounded by her happy family and friends, thankful for each and every last mad, infuriating, wonderful one of them. And most of all, utterly _praising_ the heavens for the man who sat by her side, an arm around her as she curled up into his chest.

 _Hang damn_ _society_ saying a man and wife _shouldn’t touch_ when near each other. _Tonight,_ they _deserved it._

Elizabeth announced she was retiring early. Her lids were drooping, and she wanted a hot bath to ease the ache in her lower back. She snuck away, bidding everyone a good night. Violet and Edith were about to launch into a duet across the room, so her families attentions were somewhat captured. They bid her a good night all the same. But turned back to the entertainment. But one _man didn’t_.

She could feel Thomas’s eyes _burn_ into her back as she slunk away. She turned, and caught his eyes over her shoulder. And smiled. It would have been impossible to miss the furnacing heat and lust in his eyes as he stared, and smiled after her. Looking _sinful_ in the candlelight.

His look made _shivers run, dance_ and _thrash_ up her spine.

She turned away, smiling. Having a _very canny_ feeling that he would be joining her _later on._

She heads to her bedchamber, and undresses, and pours herself a piping hot, bubble filled bath. She drips in oils and throws her dressing gown off and sinks deep into the blisteringly hot water, feeling her body drop in relaxation almost _right away._

Her lids almost fell closed, and she succumbed to the heady heat. She began to wash herself, slowly, scrubbing away the bubbles from her skin, watching her skin pinken all the more from the heat. The oil she used, patchouli and honey, its fragrance lingered in the air about her.

She passed a washcloth lathered in soap up and down her arms. Humming an old french song to herself as she washed. She brought the cloth down and stroked a maternal hand over her belly. Loving the feeling of the life growing within. She felt all warm, and snug. She sighed a huge sigh of pure contentment.

“What a day, _hmm,_ lemon?” She smiles, chuckling to herself and the baby.

She thinks that in just three short weeks, she’d be able to feel the baby begin to move, and twist inside of her. She already spoke to the growing bump in a way that probably looked _completely_  mad. But she _did it_ regardless. And she knew that Thomas would adore doing it too. She could inagine him kissing her tummy, snuggling down next to her with a book, and reading the baby a story in that wonderful soft lull of his deep, hypnoticly handsome voice. Changing the timbre of his tone if the pages required him to act out voices from a tale. 

She smiles, _again_ , It was a wonder that after all of the grinning she did today, her cheeks weren’t about to _fall off._

She looked at her fingers, which were beginning to prune. She decided that it was then time to climb out and dry off. She inelegantly heaves herself up and flops out of the bath before draining it, padding herself all over with a thick, soft towel. Before pulling on a long, silken silver gown hung up on the brass hook behind the door. She slips it on. And crosses to the mirror to brush her unruly hair. Curled into copper madness from the steam and heat of the bath. She slowly takes her time gliding the silver back hairbrush through her thick red mane that she thought, wouldn’t be completely out of place on a lion. Working through the stubborn knots, when there came a _knock_  to the bathroom door.

She turned to look at the door, it was then she heard a whisp of paper, and she saw a note slide under the gap at the bottom of it. She smiled in bewilderment at what was most probably the antics of her husband.

She unfolded the note, and read it, recognising his staple, elegant scrawl.

It read “ _Too presumptuous?”_ signed with his initials and a kiss at the bottom.

She frowned, before she walked through to their bedroom, as soon as she pushed open the door, and stepped into the darkened room. She smiled in disbelief, and her breath was stolen swiftly from her lungs.

 _“Oh_.” She sighs looking around her.

Candles had been lit and placed on every piece of spare surface there was to be had. On the vanity table, the chest of drawers, the mantel, the hearth, the bedside drawers, in the holders on the walls. Even on the floor by the bed. On which, sat a _very_ happy looking Duke.

His eyes lit up brightly when he saw her emerge from the bathroom. He had divested himself of his waistcoat and his boots. Sat, barefoot in his breeches, with the suspenders looped by his hips, his cravat was unwound beside him on the bed.

She lit up the entire room with the way she smiled over at him.

“Not too presumptuous in _the slightest_.” She told him.

She may aswell have waved a red flag to a bull on saying that…

Because as soon as the words slipped from her lips, he was on her. He crossed the room, and _ripped off_ one shoulder of her gown his lips going _instantly_ to her neck, pecking kisses down her skin, folding her hair out of his way as the sheer momentum and force of his ambush forced her lower back to meet with the chest of drawers, behind her. She gasped unepxectedly, wantonly, as his teeth came into the fray, sucking and nipping at her neck. She threw her head back and moaned his name loud, latching her fingers into his hair as his lips travelled lower.

His warm hands slithered inside the robe and he placed both hands flat to her ribs, pushing the gown open as he went, exposing her perfect breasts that _were his_ for the taking. Groaning outwardly, his _ardor stirring,_ seeing she was delightfully _naked_ under the flimsy silken robe.

Her chest was now heaving with every breath as his lips reached her collarbone, her body arching into his for more. All she could hear was the sound of his lips hitting her skin, and their separate groans and gasps of passion and arousal. His hands skimmed the barest brush to feel the undersides of her bosoms touch against his hands, and before he could stop himself, he takes them in his hands. Not quite grabbing them, but he wasn’t slow and particularly gentle about it. But hearing how she moaned his name as he did it, let him know he was doing something _right_ to give her pleasure.

He’d missed gazing upon her beautiful, soft body. The dusky pink of her nipples that he considered _utterly perfect._ Cresting soft peaks that knew how to fit perfectly into his hands when he cupped them. In the honey gold of the candlelight around them, He let his head fall down onto her shoulder as his hands worshipped her torso. Both hands coming up, grasping the back of the robe and lifting it so the bow she tied at the front pulled apart of its own accord, and he watched it, slowly, seductively, as the gown was gently peeled off her in an endless rush of silk that made her whimper. The sash dropped, parting to flank her sides. And he then pushed his hands to curl up and over her shoulders, edging the gown down her back with his arms, watching it reveal all of her body. Her stomach, her glorious hips, her slender legs, her soft, rounded thighs and the _nirvana_ that lay between them.

He looked at her. He took a _few long seconds_ to _just look_ at her. _At all of the perfect bare glory he had missed_. Admiring her naked body. Caressing her with his eyes alone as his hands stayed put at her hips as she stayed arched back, vertically reclining against the drawers behind her back.

Their lovemaking had always been about touch, and taste. But this was the first time he considered sight to be equally as seductive as the first two. His breath hit hot against her neck as he dropped her gown to crumple into an ineffectual pile of silk to the carpet below. Theirs was n _o ordinary_ lust, or love. It was unique to the both of them. _They were designed for one another, he was sure of it._

“ _My god, you’re more perfect than I remember…”_

He sighs in a groan against her hair as his hungry body covers her own, and she can feel his hardness press to the apex of her thighs. Making her arousal _ache_ to be reunited with him.

She gasps all the more as he sinks to his knees, and captures the back of hers, tugging them up, and parting them, hoisting her up so she was now in his arms. His hands curled over her rear as he lifted her off her feet, feeling those perfect, soft, womanly curves press into him. Her breasts crushed to his chest, her arms folded over his neck.

He walks them, almost joined as one, to the bed. Collapsing atop her in a tangle of limbs, watching her lovely red hair fan out below her as he leaned down and kissed her, his lips growing greedier the longer that they stayed pressed to her, his hands pressed flat to the bed either side of her head.

It was _agony_ , being spread out, perfectly bare and wanting under him, and him being fully clothed still. She protested. Raising her top half to sit up on her elbows, forcing him to leave a sizeable gap between their bodies.

She doesn’t have time to explain herself, she lunges for his shirt, and rips it off over his head, making him throw it to the floor. Her hands reach round him again and she snaps the braces off his trousers. He sat up now, on his knees, looking at her naked brazenness as she undressed him, his eyes piercing down at her. His chest heaving. The ivory, solid chest she’d missed curling up to in her dreams at night. Those solid, atheltic slabs of male muscle that made him up, and which she _adored_.

He watches her hands quickly undo the buttons on his breeches, before harshly jabbing her hands down the sides of his thighs, showing him she wanted them off, He complied, standing and relieving himself of the infernal item of clothing. And then, she is finally happy. Because now, _he is as naked as she is._

Before they can devour each other with their eyes, Elizabeth slinks to the edge of the bed, and comes to stand, grasping his neck as she kisses him, hard, hot. Their feverishly lustful skin pressing into each other.

Their hands run over every _inch_ of skin, reclaiming every part of it that the both of them had eagerly missed. Her hands stroked down his fine, sculpted back. And his lingered down her thighs, squeezing her ample, soft ass, running in _delicious_ tempation to rake up her back. Leaving goosflesh where he dared to touch her. And wherever her hands fell on him, left what felt like _fire_  on his skin, heating his blood.

The kiss _became feral_. They didn’t lovingly caress each other any more. It was getting harsher, they grabbed, and groped and their hands grew greedy searching for fistfuls of warm flesh. He growled her name when her hand snuck between them and she made a fist around his arousal. Hot. Hard and velvety in her palm. And she gently  _tugged_. Making him moan. And grab her, _hard_. 

Elizabeth let him take charge of their pleasure. Because if she had to last _any longer_ without taking the blissful sensation of every wonderful hard inch of him inside her, she was sure she’d _burst_ with all the fever of longing that was running like molten lust under her skin. Loitering painfully in every blood cell.

 _“Have me_ , Thomas, _have me now, please_! Dear _god, have_ _me now!_ …” She whines.

He takes her statement _far too_ literally, she is slammed into the nearest patch of wall he could stumble them too, her legs are hoisted high by his rough hands, but _she adores it_ , she was aching, hankering for him. For her _husband_ , needing the intimacy and pleasure that could only be found in his arms, and taken out of his body. _And his alone_. 

She groans as he sinks slowly into her, her head drops back as she lets out a bone deep moan that she could not stop even if she had wished too. His strong hands grip her legs by his side, and his thrusts begin, each one sending waves of ectsasy to _shoot_ like white hot sparks through her abdomen, and she could hear and feel him groan against her neck. Moaning her name into her ear. How blissfully tight she was. How wet and warm she was clamped around him. She could feel his body shivering with delight as he rocked them deeper and deeper into pleasure.

Elizabeth panted, raking her nails down his fair skinned, muscled back as his fevered lips dove for her neck, peppering kisses all across her face and throat. 

She was clutching at his shoulders now, muffling her mouth down on his shoulder, because if she didn’t – _she’d scream_. She _knows_ she would. And she didn’t want to wake the people slumbering in the guest rooms opposite. He then shifts her legs further apart, and his body brushes closer into her own, hitting places curved deep inside her, rotating, thrusting, stroking profoundly, making her buck and yelp, _trembling_ in his arms. His need almost a _frenzy_ now. But he was enjoying watching her flounder in ectsasy _far too much_ to take his own pleasure _just yet._ The way her hands scrambled at him, made him uncertain if she was trying to pull and bind them together as _one_ , or _tear_ him away, her pleasure so close it was a _torture_. He could feel her _lovely_ thighs tremble and shake

His blue eyes found her own, and he smirked, the sweat beading on both their brows making their cheeks flush. His hot breath hit against her lips as he watches her shut her eyes, and her face contorted, her brow pulled down, and her mouth couldn’t help but fall open. She was close… _he knew it._ He devoured her with smug eyes and a satisfied smile. 

He leaned in close, lifting one leg of hers higher, spreading her open _wider_ , letting his thrusts grow deeper and twice as forceful his hips smacking against hers I harder and harder n _sheer_ reckless abandon. She has to cling onto him tight as she feels her completion nearing, she was loosing her hold on her bliss. Because now she was shaking and bucking and moaning so many little pleas to god, _he’s almost_ convinced shes a religiously driven woman. Watching with hunger what she looked like, the sounds of rapture she made at her last. _Then_ his name slips from her lips – _which he swares is the most beautiful way he’s ever heard his name be called -_ before she goes as still and rigid as was possible. Wave after hot wave of pleasure coursing through her body, sparked to climb higher with every brush of his clever hips. As the elation wears off, she gasps with every slick tug and plunge of his length reaching inside her.

It was a herculian effort to even _open_ her eyes, when Thomas returned her shaky legs to the floor, and used his weight to hold her up against the wall before she sagged in a heap of limbs to the floors, he leans in, still sunk to the hilt inside her, the way she was tightened spasmodically about him made him _damn sure_ what his next move would be…

“ _Darling_ …” He purred, kissing against her neck as he leaned into her and grinned like a wolf.

“Hmmm.” She moaned as he stroked a loving finger along her collarbone, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

 _“I’m not even finished with you yet…”_ He coos into her ear.

Her eyes snap open, and for the second time that night. He takes charge of his wife, and tugs her around their bedroom as if she weighs no more than a feather. Her back hits the mattress and she can only arch and groan under him as his mouth latches to her neck once more, and he holds her down as he relentlessly drives deep into her again in one quick thrust. 

This results in her crying his name out so loud, his lips have to go to her own to shut her up. Her hands slip down his dewy back, and his go to caress her intimately, and _damn the man_ , he finds a confounded _new angle_ with which to drive her _completely out_ of her sane mind, he pulls her leg aside and rests it so one calf of hers rests against his shoulder, an he smoothes his warm hand down her silken leg. Her breasts jolting below him as she lay prostrate on her back. Being mercilessly ploughed into with his hips. 

She grappled for the bedsheets above her head, fighting the urge to sink her teeth into the eiderdown to force herself not to shout her elations for all of Chatsworth to hear. His hips smack into her own again, and she feels his wandering hands go to tease her breasts as the onslaught of pleasure continues. The fire settled low inside her belly coils up again, and she knows it won't take much more for her to shatter around him, screaming his name  To heaven and back.

 He comes down low to her now, bracing his chest against hers as she feels his front crush flat her breasts, his thrusts now sending her up the bed. His mouth finds her own, and he kisses her with such a _hungry_ passion that seemed impossible to fathom, when he was currently working towards their heady delight.

His lips open, hot and wet against hers as he groans her name, and shudders against her. The concentration on his face of slowly rotating and twisting his pistoning hips soon proves to be too much. His rythmn looses its musicality, and carnal primitive lust overtakes him. He scoops her hair into his hands and kisses her with a violent, turbulent need. His teeth clash into their kiss, and soon he had to pull away from her gorgeous mouth in order just to moan. She does too, grabbing handfuls, scrabbling at his back, trying to pull him closer as she gets near to her second completion of the evening.

They look into each others eyes and the both of them groan, moaning as Thomas drives his arousal into her for the last few times, jolting into his release, shuddering, trembling and shouting her name to her neck as he finishes his last. He adored watching her throw her head back, and grab onto the matress as if it was the only thing holding her onto planet earth.

He panted, stroking a playful finger in a line down the centre of her sweat soaked body. Marvelling as he panted in lust at her pale, soft skin. His eyes darted to every cute freckle and every perfect mole. He released himself from her, feeling her wetness slick against her slippery, hot thighs. He crawls slightly off her, leaning down to press twin kisses to her hipbones, his nose hitting her navel. He kissed just above her belly button. Wathcing her beautiful breasts rise and fall, her rosy nipples puckered, as she tried to compose herself.

She moans as he places a kiss to her gorgeous, sweet cleft. Which makes her buck as his warm lips hit her skin in an intimate area that she didn’t expect. She was certain his devious tongue snuck out and slithered over her moist pink wetness. 

Next to be kissed, were her supple thighs. He then swoops up and kisses the underside of each breast, nuzzling his nose against the silken skin there. Before pressing a kiss – only flicking his tongue out _ever so slightly_ – against her hardened nipples. Then he swoops for her neck again and with a growling moan, nips and bites the delectable column of her throat.

 _“Oh_ , _I have_ missed _that_ …”

She finally groans. Which is a good sign for him, if she was capable of intelligable speech when he was inside her, making love to her, than he wasn’t doing his job _properly._

“You and me _both_ …” He grins.

Some of the candles around the room had died down now, and Thomas shifts his wifes legs off the covers, curling up with her under them, pressing his sex into her soft ass as they lie on their sides, his nose tickling her ear as he kisses her neck. She lay with her arm under her head stretched out straight, his hand holding her own as his arm too was under her head, his free hand stroking down her hip as he watched her succumb to sleep. Looking down over her.

“Why are you _watching me?”_ She asks, through a small voice, and shut eyes.

“I’ve missed _your lovely copper_ hair being on the pillow opposite my own _at night_ …” He smiles softly, twirling a lock of it around his finger.

“I’ve missed that _lovely soft, round, ass_ being wedged between my thighs when I sleep…” He purrs.

She smiles. He see’s the corner of her eyes wrinkle with the force of her smile.

“That’s all you’ve missed? _My red hair_ on the pillow, and _my round ass_ pressing into you?” She asked.

“Now you mention it, I missed the _bed shaking sex_ too…” He grumbles into her ear, kissing her neck.

“To paraphrase _you:_ dear husband. _You and me both_.” She smiles,

He settles down behind her, and closes his eyes. His body relaxing as his front pressed into her back. But before he finally allows himself to fall prisoner to the sleep making his lids heavy. He grabs her hand, and twines his fingers through her own.

_“I missed every single, glorious inch of you, Elizabeth Kenworthy..”_

He tells, uncaring if she heard him, or if she was too far gone in her sleep, and then, only then, without any further ado, he closes his eyes, and rests.

 

Elizabeth smiled at his tender whisper.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

Thomas didn’t know what woke him, all he knew was, he shifted his hips forwards, expecting them to press into the soft, warm loveliness of his wifes body, and his lips sought to nuzzle into her neck, and snuffle into the scented curls of her wonderful hair.

His hands felt for nothing but the empty _cold, bedsheets_ next to him..

His eyes snapped open with that _very sobering_ realisation. He exhaled a sleepy groan, his hooded eyes adjusting to the sight of the empty, vacated bedsheets. A cool silver shaft of moonlight shone a square onto the bed beside him. showing him the mussed covers and pulled back eiderdown that indicated his glorious, naked wife had left him alone in bed. A brief moment of panic seized him when he opened his eyes. He was worried he had dreamed the entire thing. Making amazing ardent, reuniting love to his wife, his mother leaving, Iris and Hugh. It was a horrible feeling, thinking all the glorys of the day he had mistaken for his mind straying into the throes of a very real dream.

Luckily, as he heaves himself onto his side, the covers falling away over his naked torso, his eyes land on a very feminine figure, shrouded in silver moonlight the opposite end of the bed. Her back leant against the windowsill, as she sat back and folded her legs over one another as she watched across the open window to the gardens below, clad in her ankle length silver robe once more. Peering at the moon, and the cloudless sky, with webs of bright stars strung up in the heavens.

He smiled, turning on his back, resting on his elbows, his body warming as he looked at the serene beauty of his wife in the unaware moment.

The bed felt big and unecessarily empty, _cold_ , without her in it beside him. He had become used to waking up being draped over her most mornings, an arm across her waist. Or his lips on her shoulder. It was the _sweetest way_ to wake up, _he’d found_.

He watched her, _just for a second._ Drinking in the glories of this woman whom he beheld the utter privilege  to call his wife. But she wasn’t to be treated as his possession. She was _entirely her own_ – if her recent exploits were anything to go by. She _was_ truly, a remarkable woman. He understood that now. She was strong. She didn’t just stand up for herself, she stood up for others too in the face of misery and deceit. That baby was _beyond blessed_ to have her for a mother. Their child would be loved, adored, spoilt and cherished like no other. He felt a warm, fuzzy pride erupt in his heart. _The best kind_ _of woman to have by his side,_ _one who made him wonder how he ever got along without knowing and loving her…_ He wouldn’t trade his Duchess for all the riches and jewels of the world. His world wasn’t even _existant_ without her in it.

“Come _back_ to _bed_..” He rasps across at her.

She jumps a little, the silence shattered by the tenor of his voice. The low, sleep choked voice that caresses her skin like silk. She turns her head and looks back over at him, led on his back, his skin as ivory as it ever was in the pure starlight. His eyes dazzled her in their brilliant blueness. His hair was shuffled and in disarray on his head where his pillow had mussed it. She smiles wider at seeing he was now awake.

“Sorry. The bump woke me up. It’s being _a little fussy_ tonight…” She told.

He sat bolt upright, paying instant attention. Any dregs of sleep that were weighing him down we sharply discarded.

“Are _you alright?_ Whats the _matter? Are you in pain?”_ He asked, clutching the bedsheets to protect his overtly generous modesty as he leaned up.

Elizabeth’s serene smile stopped him as she gently shut her eyes and spoke back to him in a soothing tone, trying to calm him before he got frazzled and worked his nerves into hysteria.

“ _I’m_ perfectly fine. _It’s fine_. All is fine. _It’s natural_ at nine weeks, _darling_.” She assures him.

His heart returned beating to a normal tempo. He exhaled a long breath as he sat at the edge of the bed. Shutting his eyes for a second, before his eyes open and find hers again.

“The moon’s _so big_ and _beautiful_ tonight…”

She hushed softly, her face turned to gaze lovingly out of the window once again. Contentedly watching the peaceful calm of the still blue night. One hand cradling her small but prominent bump.

She jumps again as her husband had silently slunk up behind her, his chest crushed to her back, his lips instantly at her shoulder, already naked from where the gown had slid down her upper arm and what with her long hair folded over the other shoulder, clearly he had zipped _straight_ to her exposed neck. She smiles, sighing down from the unexpected attack he ambushed her with.

“ _Christ Thomas._ Whats the _meaning of this?”_ She purrs, dropping her head back in delight, as he kisses her neck and fills her with sheer bliss as his head is bent over the juncture of where her neck meets her shoulder. Kissing, sucking and rendering her weak with ecstasy. Her dainty hand lifted to his head to part through the onyx strands, lovingly stroking his hair.

 _“Slinking up_ behind me _like a tomcat_ …” She grins.

_Appropriate… He thinks smugly to himself._

He nuzzles into her skin, and she could feel his smug grin. His hand tiptoed from her back, round to her front, joining her own, linking through her fingers as his thumb stroked the soft silken gown covering her abdomen. The side of his head pressed to her own as he looked down at the bump. He smiled into the skin of her shoulder. At the two things he adored most in _all the world_ both being cradled lovingly in his arms. The world would never know a happier man than him right at that second.

He pressed a _tender_ kiss to her shoulder. Smelling the musk of honey and scented soap that lingered there. The fragrance their bed _reeked_ of. And he adored it. The bed he’d banished himself too in the adjoining chamber smelt of clean linen. _And, oh, how_ _h_ _e'd hated it._ His bed should always smell like his wifes fantastic scent, the scent that enticed him, and calmed him.

“You look _so lovely_ in starlight…”

He whispers passionately into her ear. Seeing how it glowed in her hair, how it kissed her skin. Making him jealous, it kissed her supple skin almost _as_ lovingly as he did. He didn’t like to think he had a rival.

“I look _the same_ as I _always do_ …” She promised.

His lips kissed the sweet spot below her ear.

“Did no one ever warn you _not to_ contradict your _very wise_ husband when he’s dissecting your _striking_ beauty…” He rumbled with a smile into her ear.

 _“Oh_ , how dare I _deign_ to disagree with you. _My Duke_.” She offers cheekily. Peering up at him.

"How will _that do?"_ She enquires. 

“ _That’s more_ like it…” He smiles.

“I’ll promise to be more _blindly obedient_ toward your wishes in future…” She pledges.

 _“Mmmn_ , as _alluring_ as that does sound, _and believe me_ … It does sound, _very,_ alluring…” He promised. His chest pressed into her back and she could feel his arousal stir and twitch against her under his breeches, nudging into her ass as he pressed himself into her on purpose. His lips hot on her neck once again.

“…I quite _adore_ the fact I don’t have a dim witted, mindless, _lemming of a wife…”_ He told.

She smiled, twisting in the bracket of his arms, and bringing the back of his head closer so she could kiss his lips sweetly. It was an intimate kiss because it was so demure. When they made love, they kissed hungrily, with fire, with a fierce passion and longing, But these kisses _he adored_. They were gentle, and always made his heart _warm right through_ , almost to the back of his spine.

“I’m sorry for your _suffering_. Indeed, you _don’t_ have a lemming. You’re stuck with a despotic and tenacious red head of a wife, _instead…”_ She told him. Her hand carressing his hair as she kisses the fine plane of one angular cheek.

“I could learn _to contain_ my despairs. _Meagre_ and _few in number_ as they are. So long as she _never_ banishes me from her bed, or her heart.” He grins.

She smiles back. Kissing his lips in a short peck.

“She’d never allow such an _unbearable calamity_ to befall her again.” She guarantees. “She’s _too stubborn_.” She pledges onto his lips. Kissing him once more. For he was intoxicating _to kiss_ , and _be kissed by._

“Is she _too wilful_ to refuse a gift of utter  _apology_ from a _very repentent_ husband?” He asks her, stroking his hand under her hair, massaging along the back of her neck.

Elizabeth twisted to look across her shoudler, peering up at him. Her curiosity peeked by him. He smiled, slipping away, she watched him cross the room. Bare backed and shirtless, adoring the athletic grace of him, her half naked man. Muscles straining down his arms, bulking at his shoulder and his biceps, and she would _forever_ consider the sculpted gorgeousness of his pale naked back utterly _stunning_. It pleased her in her own, odd, selfish, little way, that no other woman got to see this sight. _This heavenly gift upon the eyes was all her own._

He fetched what he was looking for, walking back over to her with his hands folded back behind him. Clutching whatever he was going to give her out of sight. His smile cunning. His eyes devious. She craned her head to look up at him questioningly as he came to stand before her, one had reaching out to loving stroke from her chin to her cheek. She closed her eyes in the blissful feel of it.

“ _Close_ your eyes…” He informs her softly after she opens them again.

She complies, letting her lids close gently shut, feeling and hearing him move behind her. She gasps and tingles as a cold collar of metal settles around her throat, resting against her collarbone, tickling her skin coolly as it is fastened about the back of her neck. With her eyes still closed, her hand reaches up to fondle a big fat cluster of the necklace as it sat near her clavicle. Feeling across the smooth, hard, stone with her fingertips.

She heard him move something in front of her. “ _Open_ …” He demands faintly.

She does, and she is faced with her reflection directly opposite her in the gilded vanity mirror. Her mouth falls open a little as she takes in the sight of a diamond wreath that now sat glistening in the starlight around her neck. Big, huge pear shaped diamonds were joined with round, smaller diamonds branching off them. It _was stunning._ She felt remarkably stunning wearing such a flawless, expensive, trinket about her neck.

She sighed.

“Thomas.. _it’s_ …” She sighs. She peers up at him looking thankful, and very awed. Her hand pressed to her chest.

“Lets not point out _the irony_ of me buying you diamonds in order to make you speechless and to forgive me for my rotten behavior…” He smiles.

“Might you make _a habit_ out of buying diamonds _every time_ we _argue?”_ She asks, raising a brow at him. When she breathed, the necklace rose and fell on her chest. Glittering and sparkling giddily in the bare moonlight.

His eyes turned warm at her, he tilted his head, assessing her. Stroking his fingertips down the side of her face. 

“Something’s…not _quite right_ …”

He spoke with concern. Suddenly frowning down at her. His eyes fluttering over her figure. She returns his look of concern, wondering what he could possibly be talking about. He crouches down onto one knee in front of her, and she watches, as he finds the sash of her dressing gown and, for the second time that night, unties it, throwing the silk tie out of his path, then, he glides it down and off her, revealing her naked body as she sat on the windowsill. He untucked it from her legs, spreading it over her thighs so now she was truly naked before him. Not one perfect inch of her criminally hidden behind the robe.

_This...._

_This was how he wanted her. Naked. Wanting. Wearing nothing but Diamonds and Starlight._

“I might have _to ban this_. This is the _second time_ tonight I’ve _had to undress_ you..” He leers holding up the scrunched dressing gown in one hand before he sends it sailing across the room. _Forgotten_. 

She watches him, her eyes fixed on his face. He loomed under her on his knees, tenderly, triumphantly, and powerfully in charge. The way his long ebony hair slid, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look oddly like a boy. But in his eyes, lived a _very adult desire_ for her. She swallowed, her arousal sweeping through her. Her chest raggedly swelling and falling with her panted breaths.

He placed his hands flat on her rounded, soft thighs, and looked up at her now. His eyes lingering on the necklace, and the desire that was making her rosy nipples pucker - _And he'd barely even touched her yet._

“That’s _better_ …” He rasps. “Do you believe _me now_?” He asks in a hush, referring to how he said she _looked lovely in starlight._

“Yes…”

She croaks, blinking at him as she smiles weakly. At the love and lust she found in his eyes, she’d agree to _anything_. But also, because she _did feel beautiful_. She felt supple, and desirable. She felt like _the_ most _ravishing creature_ to grace the planet because of the sweetness and devotion of the man who knelt before her. Worshipping her.

He moved closer to her now, his hands sliding up her legs, over across her thighs, reaching for her hips. Which his hands then go to to slide them around her back. Hooking himself closer to her, as he stayed kneeling.

She instinctively let her legs part to welcome him into the space between them. Her hands go over his shoulders, slowly, his eyes not leaving hers all the while. The intimacy and eroticisism of the moment making her skin spark everywhere he touched her.

Still not taking his eyes from hers, his chest comes close, almost close enough to touch and to press against her. He leans in, his nose nuzzling into her sternum and the valley of her breasts as he kisses her there.

He works his way downwards, every touch leaving her gasping, pining for more. He goes lower, and lower, and she sighs as she watches him keep her legs parted as they were, His hands dragging down her thighs, to come to her knees and nudge her legs even wider apart. He tugs her slowly to the edge of the windowsill, and gazes down at the intimate, beautiful sight awaiting him at the apex of her thighs. Her _wet, warm_ womanhood.

He leans forwards, slowly, _so slowly,_ that she whimpers. But she nearly leaps up out of her very seat when his hot tongue sweeps over intimate, already wet parts of her sex.

His hands grasped her sides, her supple, full figured, sides as his head pushed down further into her lap. And she could feel _nothing_ but the silk of his hair feathering against her stomach and his sinful tongue sweeping patterns around her tender, wet folds that left her squirming and thrashing in his arms. She felt him move as his hand slithered up her body and took her soft breast into the perfect cradle of his warm hand.

Her head fell back as she moaned, hitting the crimson velvet curtain behind her. She gasped, she shook, she was on _fire_ , burning with heat and lust, and still he drank from her. Taking every _single_ ounce of her in.

Every warm, wet swipe of his tongue moved her closer and closer to reaching her peak. It was infuriating how _slowly_ he could build her up, up and up. And when she reached her release, something inside simply melted away, and the pleasure unfurled inside, spreading from her core, shooting down her legs, warming her stomach, making her brain mush as in her pleasure she was only ever able to loudly exclaim his name, and gods, worshiping them both in a similar manner which she was sure would be frowned upon as going against the Ten Commandments in ' _thou shalt have no other gods before me.'_ Because to her, Thomas _was_ her God.  

She cried, and bucked and shattered her release onto his lips, and he took it all until she tangled her hands in his hair, the pleasure rolling over and over until she could take it no more. It was an odd kind of suffering, having _too much_ pleasure. It didn’t sound like _a bad thing._ But her body _begged_ for a reprieve from the mans talented tongue, if only for a second… whilst she tried to regain all of her other senses that had grown dull and unimportant.

She slouches back against the window sill seat, daring to open her eyes and watch her husband place kisses up along the insides of her ticklish, drenched thighs. Warm and slippery soft under his lips. Before his vibrant eyes tipped up to meet her own. He licked his lips, having the sweet essence of her on his mouth. That made her flush with embarassment as she thought of him savouring the taste and aspect of her.

He slowly slid up her body, capturing her lips in another one of his forceful kisses. And how she whimpers, and gasps into his mouth as he _devours_ her with passion.

He takes his time in kissing her, nipping at her lower lip. Before skilfully teasing her with the tip of his tongue. Making her shudder heavily, being kissed in the most erotic manner she’d ever been exposed too. His hands slid into her hair, tangling themselves into the copper mane he so adored. Every movement of his, slow, and deliberate. Tantalising her tingling lips with his tongue, slowly drawing in, then pulling back, forcing her to groan at how he can cause such desire and heat to pinprick and then drop in her body. She can feel the _wild_ longing in him. He was rock hard, under his breeches brushing against her thigh, yet his actions were cautious, slow and considerate. Building further and further on the heat, and opulence of the moment.

When he sadly breaks free from her lips, she makes an intoxicating groan of need. He adored this. Making her desperate for him. Unwinding the lust for him inside her, until she grew so bold as to act on it. They pant onto each others lips, slowly stroking their hands along the others hot skin. His hands go to cup her fabulous breasts, and hers tangle in his hair and rake her nails deviously up his back which makes him shiver.

She doesn’t intend to, but her wet sex unconsciously presses into his torso as she arches against him and his erotic ministrations that are slowly driving her _insane_.

He scoops her up in his arms, forcing her up, and they stand almost bonded together as he shucks off his breeches. Kicking them off his legs, before he gathers her close, and they move to fall over onto their mussed bed.

She was underneath him, enjoying every move he made, gripping her thigh to fold up and over his hip. His hot, warm, taut, arousal prods against her fleshy thighs as he covers her body with his own. Her arms struggle to bring him closer, but still she grabs at his back. He does nothing to react, but kiss her harder, breaking away to mouth down her neck. Sucking red love bites onto her fair skin, releasing her flesh with a soft _pop_ when he was certain she’d wake tomorrow to find numerous little, _dark_ , love bruises all over her throat as evidence of his lust for her.

When he can take it no more, he releases her, and holds her to stay where she is, led diagonally across the bed, keeping her on her left side, as he slides behind her, his front pressing into her back. She only realises what he was doing, when she feels him guide himself slowly inside of her, stretching her open gently as he thrust _all the way_ into her hot, wetness. Groaning at the vice like feeling of her tightening down on him.

He brings her right thigh up slightly over his hip, and his hand that wasn’t gripping her side slides under her head, and turns her lips back to his as he begins to move, his movements making her body rock and sway as he rotated and pistoned out of her. The hand that had stayed at her hip, controlling her motions as he rocked in and out of her, left her soft hip, and slithered down to press between her legs, finding that sweet little pearl of flesh that he _so enjoyed_ tantalising, making her whimper, her eyes falling closed as her head fell back to find his shoulder.

He grinned as he nibbled on her neck that was stretched out before him. All his for the taking. And he was also smug about the fact that they both now lay in the moonlight that streamed in from the window. If she didn’t believe him _saying_ was beautiful in starlight then he’d take the time to _show her_ , how breath taking she was.

It didn’t take long for the both of them to reach that sweet sensation of release. He shifts up and over her, changing positions as he feels the both of then grow close. He flattens her on her back, and collects her close, as his rythmn remains slow, but consistant, stroking the hair out of her face as he looks into her eyes. She returns the favour gripping him tight, one hand in his hair, the other holding the muscles of his lower back. He watches her pleasure reach its climax, his eyes still focused on hers as he rocked, shivered and groaned.

 _And it’s beautiful_.

The tantricity of looking into her beautiful eyes when his pleasure reached its peak was the most erotic, intimate thing they had ever done. She sighs his name through a smile, stroking his head with her hand.

Nothing more needed to be said. They were _so intrinsically one._ Of course they forgave each other for all that had happened and passed. They could not be in this world, _and not_ belong together. He pants looking down at her, his body arced over hers as he pulls away and kisses her shoulder.

Loving her skin. Bare, perfect, unblemished and supple, in starlight.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

Once more, she wakes, only this time, it was not of her or the bumps doing. She was teetering on the odd, unrealistic border between a dream, and consciousness. But what did wake her was the low, soothing lull of her husbands voice speaking softly beside her.

Her eyes crack open slightly, seeing the silver and blue light of night was shining still. The moonlight hitting the other side of the room now, letting her believe it was somewhat later on in the night. She swallowed, feeling her mouth was a chasm of sticky, dryness from where she had slumbered. Her cheek warmed from being slumped so against her downy pillow.

She blinks, and her eyes adjust to see a dark shape linger near her ribs. The covers were pulled right down low off her, and she realised that her skin was slightly cool from being exposed. As the covers now lay pooled across her thighs. She was on her side, facing into the bed, one arm folded under her head, the other resting on her waist.

She blinks a little, seeing that dark shape near her ribs, was, in fact, her husbands head, facing away from her. Pressed a mere inch away from her belly, his hand gently stroking the barest brush of a fingertip along the taut skin of her stomach. And that’s when she realised, _he wasn’t speaking to her, he was speaking to the baby…_

“Your going to have such a wonderful life, _my_ little _one_ , _you know that?_ Your mother is _the most_ incredible, selfless, glorious woman to ever walk this earth. Shes going to spoil you senseless, beyond your wildest dreams. But _I promise, I’ll_ spoil _you more_ … Not that I’m _competing, or anything…”_ He adds. Which makes her smile.

“I will give you every single, possible thing you could ever wish for. The moon. The stars. I’ll pluck them from the sky for you if you should ask it of me. I will make your life on this earth the most _amazing_ one any child will have… I’ll buy you dresses and dolls, or train sets and breeches. Depending on what you decide to be, _that is._ But it doesn’t matter to me what you will be. My darling boy or my wonderful girl. I _will_ love you with a passion that knows _no rival._ \- Save for the _all consuming_ love I have for your _phenominal_ mother. And I'm making a _wild_ venture here, but you _may_ have a fair few brothers or sisters to come after we meet you…We shall have _to see_ about that…” He tells uncertainly.

“…And I hope _you know_ , my little lemon, that you will be born into _the most warm,_ loving family _you’ll ever know_. You’ll have a veritable pack of aunts, and uncles. Your cousins, Edith and Judith will _adore_ you. Edith will read you _so many_ books, I’m worried your brain will _burst_ from the sheer number of things she’ll _recite_ to you. And _I do worry_ that Judith will try and dress you up as _a pirate_ some day… But _, nonetheless_. Your Auntie Iris and your new Uncle Hugh are the kindest, most reverent people I’ve ever met. And _oh, how they’ll adore_ you. Iris will sing you lullaby’s and your Uncle Hugh will be constantly looking, worrying, watching after you, reading you Fordyce's sermons to trick and  _bore_ you into  _sleep._ ” He crooned.

“And _for gods sake_ , if your Uncle Carlton tries to offer to teach you the art of how to behave in society, or to teach you how to sing operatics. _For heavens sake, run away_ from _him as fast as your_ little legs can carry _you.”_ He warns. “And, between you and I, you don’t even go _near_ Felicity if she’s her _sewing box to hand_ …” He concludes.

Elizabeth smiled widely at that.

He sighed, leaning over and pressing a small, soft brush of a kiss to the bump.

“And I pledge to you, my tiny human, that _I will_ look after you and your mother. I’ll teach you how to walk, play games, how to talk, act, think big, bright thoughts, and be merry. I’ll _never_ ignore or dismiss you as just a child. You are _my child,_ My heart. And I will love you til long after I draw my last breath on this earth. So you just say safe and snug in there, I’ll be waiting impatiently to see you out here. To welcome you into this glorious world. _Now_ , don’t you  _kick_ your mother too much, or cause her too much strife, or pain. _Will you?_ Or you and I will have stern words when you are born, do  _you hear me?_ Your mother needs every spec of rest and happiness I can give her. So just you behave, my little miracle, because I know you have those pesky Farrow genes, which might make you incredibly stubborn and _viciously relentless_ …" He predicted.

“I wonder if you’ll have my Elizabeth’s _perfect red hair?_ Or my own dark _, sable colouring_?… Though I can’t say I _wouldn’t adore_ seeing you have a _mad tangle_ of carroty red hair like your mummy. Because whenever I peer at your perfect little face, I’d see your mothers striking beauty in you… and that's no bad thing. For your mother is quite lovely” He confessed.

“I can’t wait to hold your little hand. And count your ten tiny, perfect toes. And see your innocent eyes blink up at me for _the first time_ , or the first time you smile, taking me in. Knowing I’m someone new. Someone _who will_ be there for you, _always._ ” He chuckles.

“So. As I instructed, you stay warm, and happy in there, and know that I will be bursting my buttons to meet you in a few months time. I love you, my little one. Now, you treat the love of my life gently, alright? Because aside from you. She is the most precious thing that I have in this world.” He urged. His voice so soft, it was almost beyond a whisper.

Elizabeth isn’t sure she _should interrupt him_. Though she was awake and hearing every word he spoke. This was private. This was an undisclosed connection of a one sided conversation between a man and his baby.

She couldn’t help it, her body grew warm and cozy with all the tender, heartfelt things she had heard him say.

She gently brings her hand out from under the eiderdown, and softly touches her fingertips into his ravens hair. He turns his head and peers guiltily up at her, his eyes wide and a little moist.

“ _Come here_ to _me you…”_

She urges, folding open the blanket, welcoming in her arms, her chest pressed into his back as her arms folded themselves, and the warm covers, around them both. He kisses her arms as she folds them across him. Pressing a kiss onto his dark head. Snuggling up to him.

“That baby will have the love of a thousand people with you as his or her father…. They are the luckiest little one ever to be born.”

She smiles, nuzzling down into her beautiful naked husband whom she cherished.

Thomas relaxed into his wifes hold, shutting his eyes in bliss as she stroked his hair. Gently, she lulled her Duke to sleep. They drifted off to rest. A picture of marital harmony once more.

 The room was peaceful, and quiet. And the diamonds linked around Elizabeth’s neck were the _second best_ treasure she was lucky enough to have clasped to her that night.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time Violet met Benedict at a ball. She took such a severe disliking to his rakish deductions of her cousin, she stomped on his toes so hard, she left bruises. He informed her, in no polite way, that she needed to get a better set of manners. She glared at the lout. Before bringing her foot down so forcefully on his, she broke two of his toes. She then callously informed him with her heart shaped mouth pulled into a smile, that what he needed, was thicker boots. She then stormed off into the crowds.


	108. Dress Fittings, Pirate Flower-Girls, and Forgotten Letter's...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact about your author: The other day, I cannot for the life of me remember where, (Somewhere online) but I read a Victorian themed novel, and it was coming up to a *racy* bit, and I kid you not, after the heroine took off her dress. the male character, and I quote, 'went to remove her bra and her underwear.' I literally threw my phone, out of my hand. Right, now is It me, or do any other writers get just a little bit irrationally annoyed when authors put 0% research effort into historical pieces? is it just me?? Or am I being a terrible snob about that.... food for thought....

 

 

 

 

~ A Few Wedding Visuals For You All ~

 

~

 

 

 

~ 4 Weeks Later ~

 

“I think… It _is perfect_ …”

Elizabeth smiled with finality. Her hands tucking to Iris’s as she stood behind the woman, fastening a thick velvet ribbon, the colour of ash, with a safety pin around Iris’s slim waist as a tester. The both of them standing in front of the large, full length, gilded gold mirror that had been painstakingly carried in by two obliging footmen – who stoutly informed the smiling ladies that it was rather on the heavy side for such dainty hands.

Elizabeth had stood with her one hand cradling her decently sized developing belly, and the other supporting her lower back, and had then given the cheeky and ever affable footman, Alfred, a _very piercing_ stare. Evidently, even though _he had_ intended it as a light hearted jest – _and his usual air of mischievous, happy-go-lucky glee_. This was _not the thing_ to say to a woman who, at 13 weeks pregnant, was just entering her second trimester. Which appeared to be the stage where she was _now plagued_ night and day with back pain, though thankfully the soreness of her chest and the morning nausea had left her. Everyone remarked on _the radiant glow_ her skin had. The tell-tale glow that _let everyone know_ she harboured life inside her. She still cursed the niggling lower back and abdominal pains, all of which were normal, but she _wouldn’t mind_ going without them, truth be told. But, today was not for her to grouse and gripe at her woes. Today….

 _Today_ was intended to be _all about_ the bride stood before her.

They had invaded the pink parlour, as this was _a ladies only_ afternoon. ‘ _A Gathering of Hen’s’,_ Thomas had rudely put it. They had brought in the mirror, and Iris was testing out the fabrics she wanted for her wedding dress. All around them there were strewn across the settees, satin, taffeta, silk, faille, silk poplin, and chiffon, in every shade of white there _was imaginable_. And René had found, atleast fifty, Elizabeth was sure of it.

The _très excellent_ French Dressmaker was currently trying to ascertain a colour for Edith, and Judith alike, which would be suitable for the Bridesmaids gowns. Holding up a swatch to see if she could find a colour to emphasise Edith’s pale colouring and enhance her sable hair. René had also brought with her, a selection of veils. One of which was currently on Judith’s head as she ran in circles around the room with her wooden pirate sword. No one had _had the heart_ to tell her she wouldn’t be allowed to have the weapon on her when she was walking up the aisle as a flower girl. There was also, placed around the room, several vases of flowers in their numerous number. All of them were prototypes to see which combination the bride would want. Lilies, Roses, Daisies, Freesias, Stephanotis, Gardenias and Oranges Blossoms. All of which permeated the air surrounding them, and the heavy smell of sickly flowers fragrance, and leafy greenery strangled the air in the room about them in a way that was almost _intoxicating._ It definitely made it feel like a very feminine, ladies afternoon.

Elizabeth watched as before her Iris looked down at her figure in the Ivory gown, She had opted for a slimmer fit than that of the large, full skirted crinolette that was so popular in London. Iris was demure, and a demure cut, genteel looking gown would suit her down to the ground. She was favouring warm, happy colours for her bridal bouquet. Ivy, and bells of Ireland for greenery, white roses, snowy lilies for the cream accents, and then for the blue, lily of the Nile, and spring starflowers, fulfilled nicely by a dash of silver, the ribbon about her waist and tying the foliage together, and the old silver and pearl earrings she would wear under her veil. Everything was tasteful, and elegant. And Iris and Hugh had opted for, _where else?_ But Chatsworth’s small little chapel for the service. Only close family and a few carefully weeded friends from in and around Derbyshire were to attend. Iris was humble, she and her new fiancé were well matched in the terms of similar feeling that their wedding union should be about their love, and not making a grand show about their wealth and prominence in society. _As it should be_

And anyone sniggering remarks under her breath that Iris was having a paupers wedding would face Elizabeth. _And she would brook_ _no opposition._ Both to Iris and Hugh’s happiness, and to the welfare of her own marriage.

They had been to a ball just this week gone, whereby the society turnout was many in number. Elizabeth and Thomas made their debut since his mothers departure, and blew all wild rumours of their estrangement _out of the water_. Thomas didn’t take his _eyes, nor his hands_ off his wife all evening – which was sure to have battened down flat any notion of their brief separation. She remembers smirking as she passed by Mrs. Gunfarthing, Whose one and only hobby seemed to be in assuring everyone their lives were dull and pointless without her direct involvement, order and influence in them, took it upon herself to exclaim loudly, to grumble disapprovingly to within Elizabeth’s earshot as she glided past the woman, that _‘such displays of marital affection were vulgar and upsetting.’_ Looking down her beefy hooked nose, and huffing at the woman, a manner in which made her look alike a puffing steam train, what with her lips pursed up in disapproval like a dried prune, and her weathered pudgy cheeks redder than rubies. _Well, Elizabeth wouldn’t stand for that_. She turned her back on the woman, and crossed to her husband, into whose ear she whispered what she had just heard.

To which Thomas’s response was to lean close to her, close his eyes in bliss and place one, tender kiss upon her neck. Looking across the room thereafter to make sure the tubby, censorious woman gasped and spluttered at such _a brazen_ display of affection. Elizabeth’s heart sung merrily for the rest of the ball. And Thomas wouldn’t desist giving her sultry looks all evening.

She also had to stand in defence of Iris and Hugh at this very same ball, as Isabella Heaton, a king necked, thin as a pencil, fair blonde slip of a woman. With malice filled green eyes and a smile that was far too wide and unattractively thin. Baron Heaton's eldest heiress, who was so rich, and nubile, that she took it upon herself to give offense wherever she went, _for she could afford too_. Elizabeth and Thomas were stood , in conversation, near the girl, Iris and Hugh a couple across the other side of the candle lit ballroom. The foul girl had cackled with her friends with a tone of disdain and cruel merriment at Iris’s expense and cackled. _“Look, there is Iris Kenworthy and that pauper Vicar as her new Beau. What's the use of being a Lady if you’re going to waste your life having a Poor mans wedding?”_ She’d shrilled into laughter. Elizabeth took note, and when the conversation lulled, she took it as her duty to loudly remark to her husband…

“Indeed, I wonder what the _use is_ of being an heiress, _if all it_ seems to do is give one a completely distorted view of their own, shallow importance and opinion…” She spoke up loudly. “When as it is…” She adds, turning her head slightly behind her shoulder, so Isabella _would know_ it was aimed cunningly at her foul remark.

“…Every spoilt heiress I’ve had the displeasure to meet seems to have the mental agility of a _soap dish_ , and room for _very little else…”_ She dug. “It’s a shame money can’t buy decency, or brains. For some, that sad fantasy is the only way they could hope to gain a set of _full faculties_. What do you think darling?” She asked Thomas.

“I’d rather have _no money_ to my name, and _have true happiness_ , than be _filthy rich_ , and have to discourage others for sport and my own amusement…” Thomas agreed.

"And I _always find._ That when vicious rumours arise from speculation about a wan and her private life. One has learnt that those rumours either come from a man who _cannot_ have her. Or a woman who doesn't _stand a chance_ of competing with her..."

They heard a huff, and a stomp from behind them, and could only assume that the chit in question had stormed off elsewhere, _and good riddance_ to her.

Elizabeth sunk back down into the present. Thinking how she had risked her contented marriage and her possible happiness for the sake of rescuing Iris and Hugh’s happiness. _So she’d be damned if anyone said a bad word to impair them within her company_. She watched Iris examine the dress in the mirror, there were still a few alterations to be made to the train, and she’d yet to decide if she wanted more detail hemmed into the waist, or the sleeves.

“Do _you know_ …” Iris told Elizabeth. “When I married John, I wore a blue dress. Though it was 1840, and everyone became _seized_ by the fashion of having a white wedding dress, A dress I decided to wear, one of the best in my wardrobe, was blue. I didn’t even have a veil, I had a garland of wildflowers for my bouquet, and we had only eight guests at the church. But do you know, I felt as elegant and as important as the _very Queen herself_.” She smiled, examining the flawless gown in the mirror as she smoothed a hand down the sides.

“Well. We certainly have _more than eight_ guests attending this one. And I can safely say, I do not think there will _be pews enough_ to house them all. And you do look _so charming_ , and beautiful in white…” Elizabeth told her sister-in-law.

Iris smiled wider.

“Do you _think so?”_ She asked, her cheeks pinking in embarrassment.

Elizabeth gave her one of her looks.

“Don’t make me get René over here and _prove_ it you you…” Elizabeth threatens

But it seemed as if the Duchesses words summoned the Dressmakers attentions anyway, as Edith slid away to ensure Judith didn’t damage anything with her weapon, René glided across to the two ladies by the mirror. Today, she was bedecked in a flawless gown, of deep, rose pink satin. Elegantly constructed of ruffles, flounces and folds that trailed away to the bustle at the back. Striped with lines of small silk buttons. Her smiling cheeks ever so gently rouged, and her looks were her typical standard of sultry, exotic and _very French_. Even her hair was a work of art, the mousy locks were wound back into a smooth, complex chignon at the nape of her neck, and the fat diamond earrings she wore in her lobes caught the light in a hypnotic manner.

“How are we doing over here? _Madamoiselle et Madame?_ What do you think of the dress Iris? You know, I could both _curse and kiss you, mon amie_ , you wear white _so beautifully_. Some women I dress look like _des fantômes_ when I put them in white. But, the Queen has it, so, _so must they…”_ She smiled.

“The dress is beautiful, René, you’ve outdone yourself, once again…” Iris smiles, delighted.

“The length of the train suits you?” She enquired, stooping to flatten it our behind her, letting an arc of white Fabric spill back from Iris’s figure.

Elizabeth stood back, and watched Iris admire herself. _After all, if one couldn’t indulged themselves and preen and fuss into the looking glass with their wedding dress on? Then when, really, could they?_

“I think, it is _faultless.”_ Elizabeth smiled. Winking across at René.

“ _Parfait._ Then all I need do, is hem a little at the front, so it doesn’t catch on your shoes, _et voila,_ I give you, Madame Everett, _your wedding dress.”_ The French Woman smiled.

Edith wandered over to them all, clutching a long wisp of a white veil in one hand, and a wooden sword in the other. The cut for Edith’s bridesmaids gown was long, with slightly large capped shoulders, a pronounced waistline, and elbow length lace sleeves, and they would be a pale, teal blue silk, and both girls would wear blue and white wildflowers twined into their hair. As Judith was the flower girl, she would wear ribbons sashes which would match her sky blue shoes.

Elizabeth looked at Edith with mirth.

 _“We may_ have to tell her bouquets are more traditional than swords for walking down the aisle as a bridesmaid.”

“All I know is I risked, life and limb getting the sword out of her grasp. _So my part_ on that duty is amply fulfilled…” Edith grinned. Throwing the sword down onto the sofa.

It was then Judith joined them, tottering around the sofa, and heaving herself up onto it. Swinging her legs as she sat near Iris.

“ _Mama?”_ She asked.

“ _Yes_ , poppet?” Iris asked as René helpfully showed her some of the veils that she had In her selection. Muslin, lace and other such choices.

“Will we still see Uncle Thomas and Auntie Lizabeth after we move?” She asked curiously.

“Of course my dear..” Iris spoke earnestly.

Elizabeth stepped across to her niece, and placed her hands on her stockinged little feet. Stroking them in a ticklish manner that made Judith giggle.

“You may walk over _at any time_ of the day or night to see us Judith...Or how else would be and Thomas cope not seeing your sunny little captains face every day?” She asks in a laugh.

“Promise?” She asked, still giggling.

“Cross my heart, and hope to die…” Elizabeth swore.

“Do _I have_ to be a flower girl?” She asked after Elizabeth had finished tickling.

“ _Yes,_ Judith _. You do_.” Edith pressed firmly, crossing her arms.

“Why can’t I be a _flower-pirate instead?_ ” She asked.

Elizabeth fought her smile.

“I think you’ll find, Judith. _Very few_ pirates traditionally have a part in a genteel English, country wedding.” Iris told.

“Madame Kenworthy? _S’il Vous plaît_ , would you like to try on your dress for any _altérations?”_ René asked, holding out the gown folded over her elbow.

To show her solidarity, as she was far too pregnant to be a Bridesmaid. Elizabeth was having a gown of her own designed for the service. A cobalt silk that mirrored the bridesmaids colours, and that sat just below the shoulders, trimmed with the bare minimum of silk flowers to bead the neckline, and the skirts flowed right down, spilling from a corseted, bodice waist. Reaching to her ankles. Her new diamond wreath from her indulgent husband, she’d wear about her neck. René had brought it along for her to see how it was progressing, the flowers hadn’t been stitched yet, but yet again, the dress lived up to being _every bit_ as gorgeous as that of the design of it.

Elizabeth smiled, taking her gown from the Dressmaker and slipping behind the screen that had been folded up the other side of the settee. Luckily the red silk gown she currently wore could be unfastened at the front, as all the detail led down the back. She unfastened it, and slid it down, also pulling down her chemise, leaving on her stockings and short bloomers, as she stood in the folds of the silken blue dress, and pulled it up. It fit her like a dream, as she knew it would. And it was lined with a lighter, softer silk, so it _felt heavenly_ to wear also.

She walked back about the screen, and René came to fasten up the opening at her lower back. Settling the material to loop around her shoulders where it sat. Sweeping the train out behind the woman to test its length. Iris had vacated the mirror to sit down next to Judith and enjoy a cup of tea.

 _“Oh_ , Elizabeth. You _look wonderful_.” Iris told.

The Duchess took her turn looking into the mirror. The bodice on the dress was shaped, as she wasn’t wearing a corset for the baby’s health. And the cut of the dress didn’t allow for a chemise either, but still her figure looked flawless.

“ _Not a patch_ on the lovely bride…” Elizabeth winked in the mirror. Her hands on her hips.

“Or the flower girl and Bridesmaids…” Edith smiled cheekily. Elizabeth, Iris and René

“I am so pleased _you all admire_ my work, _mes amies_.” René smiled. “I know no other family in Derbyshire to _be so generous_ …” The Dressmaker smiled as she sipped her coffee. It was Turkish coffee, black as ink. Elizabeth knew Thomas liked a cup of it in the morning, strong, and laced with a spoonful of cinnamon. René took hers with only a sprinkling of sugar.

 _“Oh_ , Elizabeth, did I tell you, Hugh thinks he may have finally found the Reverend to perform the service for us. He comes from Staffordshire. A Reverend Littlefield. Hugh informs me he’ll be coming for tea tomorrow. Hopefully he won’t be like the _last three_ …” Iris spoke gently.

“What was wrong with the last three, Chérie?” René asked curiously. All women, brides, Duchesses, Bridesmaids and Flower-pirates, now sat down on the settees and armchairs.

“Well…” Iris began.

“One, was so drunk, he couldn’t even pronounce _my surname_ at the rehearsal. And when he took tea with us, I left him unattended for _just one minute_ , to fetch more tea. And I sware to the Almighty Lord, I saw him empty his teacup into the nearest plant pot, and refill it with a _hip flask_ …” She told.

Everyone gasped, Elizabeth giggled.

“ _Mon Dieu…”_ René laughed. “.. What is it with _all these_ clergymen nowadays? If they are _not drunk_ , they are finding some _other way_ to be salacious…” The woman smirked.

“I knew a Reverend in London who grew overly too fond of the wine at Sunday communion. _So much so_ his verger replaced the offering with berry fruit cordial…” Elizabeth told.

There came more bouts of girlish laughter.

“What was _wrong_ with _the second?”_ Edith asked her mother.

“The second, the poor dear, Reverend Goodall, _was so old,_ he couldn’t remain standing when it came to the rehearsal. And so deaf, that we had _to shout our_ vows just to ensure he heard them…” She spoke in turmoil.

Elizabeth had to wipe away a tear she’d laughed so much. Edith had slumped back on the sofa, holding her belly as she howled with laughter. René shook her head as she sipped her coffee, careful not to spill it on her dress as she chortled along with them. Even Judith had a giggle.

“The third, _oh please_ , tell us the third…” Elizabeth begged.

“Well. He is not a drunk, and _he isn’t_ too old and deaf. But, he does rather pronounce his voice to a _quite loud_ shout… and his views on marriage were somewhat… _medieval..”_ She informed them, making a cringing face.

“So, let me put it plainly. _Out of all_ of the choice’s for the Reverend’s who’ll be marrying you. _One_ is a drunk. _The next_ an elderly, deaf, crone. _And the third_ is a shouting, chauvinist…” Elizabeth asked.

Iris shrugged.

“How _far the church_ has fallen…” Edith sighed.

“I’m trying not to get _my hopes up_ for Reverend Littlefield…” She sighed.

“We’ll all keep our fingers crossed for you, _dearest._ ” Elizabeth told.

“I’ll be sure to slip a sixpence into your left shoe for _good luck,_ .” René winked.

“And may a black cat, a spider, or a chimney sweep cross your path before the ceremony…” Edith added, though she wasn’t one for believing in these old tales of superstition and good luck, she did like to uphold tradition.

“And… I have _something blue_ you could borrow…” Judith told her mother.

“ _Is it_ a pirate’s hat?” Iris asked sunnily.

“You _don’t_ want it?” Judith asked, her voice wobbling in a dangerous manner that told Iris tears and sadness were building.

“I will _wear it proudly_ , my darling. I may not even _bother_ with a veil.” She smiled , holding her daughters little hand as her face perked up in amusement.

Elizabeth smiled across at them in the mirrors reflection.

Disturbing their afternoon of ladies, dresses and fun, there came a knock to the parlour door. Elizabeth called for them to enter, thinking it was probably Wilkins with another tray of tea for them all. She turned to see whom slipped through the door, and the room was thrown into sudden disarray as she recognised that it was Hugh.

Her and René dived for the screen and shouted at him to turn around and avert his eyes, as Iris was in her wedding gown. He held up his hands in surrender, and turned about, grinning to face the wall. Edith ran across to the room and shielded his eyes with her hands. Judith tottered over too, giggling as she threw herself onto Hugh’s leg. Hugging him.

Once Iris was placed behind the screen. Concealing her wedding dress for luck. Edith let her stepfather turn back around. Judith had now been relocated to the prime position of being hauled up into Hugh’s hold. Settled by his hip as he was finally granted permission to look to all the ladies he came in here to see.

“A thousand pardons, Ladies'. _I’d no idea_ I’d be interrupting a _wedding dress_ fitting…” He explained with a regretful face.

“As long as you didn’t see the dress, _we’ll_ forgive you…” Elizabeth informed him with a cruel twitch of her auburn brow and a wicked smile.

“Hugh, it _un immense_ pleasure to meet such a handsome, Clergyman. Why, If all Vicars looked like you, _Mon Cher,_ I’d set foot in church _far more_ often…” René greeted.

“ _Bonjour,_  Réné.” Hugh smiled. His cheeks flushing a little pink. The Frenchwoman was as sultry and as lively as he’d ever known her.

The women giggled at his apparent uneasiness. Surrounded by ribbons, and veils, flowers and dresses, and outnumbered by several females. His nervousness was clearly _palpable_. 

“Did you _want something_ , my dear?”

Iris asked through a laugh, peering over the French screen at him. Hugh lost his voice at seeing the sight of his beloved, framed by the light coming from the window behind, making her lovely dark hair lighten. And her sparkling grey eyes took his breath away…

“Just to _let you know._ _We won’t_ be having tea with Reverend Littlefield tomorrow, _after all…”_ He told her.

“Why ever _not?”_ Iris asked, her face falling.

“…Because he just sent me a letter… From a _police holding cell_. Apparently he was _arrested_ yesterday for tax evasion…” He told glumly.

“Where _are_ all the good vicar’s in England?” Elizabeth asked rhetorically in astonishment.

“Well. From _what mother_ told us, In prison, nearly dead, or stuck in _1434._ ” Edith smiles.

“There is, however, a silver lining. In that my father and mother, have invited us to Hampshire, for the weeks end. So that they may meet you before the wedding, _my love_ , and my father has a few close friends in the clergy whom we could meet and decide which one we want to marry us…” He informed them.

“ _Oh_ , how _kind_ of them…” Iris smiled.

Elizabeth was thoroughly heartened by the fact that they weren’t letting anything sink their happiness. Though, _admittedly,_ things had gone wrong, they weren’t letting it get them down. _That was a true happy match for marriage. When no bad news could get them down, so long as they had the other…_

“If any of them _don’t_ smell of whiskey, or communion wine, that would be _a grand_ start…” Iris told him. “I’d _adore_ to go to Hampshire, my love, and it’d be wonderful to meet your parents…” She grins.

“Margaret, Robert, and Peter have been invited too. We’ll travel there Friday, after evensong. And They’ll travel up Saturday noon.” He informed them. Shifting Judith a little further up his hip as she snuggled into the man.

“May I be so bold as to take a moment and burden so upon Elizabeth, Edith and _pest here’s_.. _time?”_ He asked his bride. Judith giggled with glee on her hip as he smiled and tickled his youngest stepdaughter.

 _“You may._ Though only to borrow them my dear _. I may_ need _them back_ …” Iris smiled lovingly.

“ _Your_ lips, to _my_ ears, _my love_..” He promised, before he beckoned the Duchess, and Edith to follow him out of the room. He led them down the hallways, round the corner, and back into the foyer. He walked them across to the far side of the hallway, to the huge windows that flanked the wall, leading to the garden terrace. Once there, they saw a curious looking wooden crate. It came up to their knees, and from inside it, there emanated some curious, rather odd sounds…

Hugh placed Judith down, and led them all over, still holding his littlest one’s hand. And when they got to the box, and peered down, Edith and Judith cooed into a chorus of ‘ _awwwww’s._

Three, small, rusty red little puppies were looking up at them, scrambling and lolloping over ne another to try and climb up and out the box to get to the girls, who were now knelt on the floor, fussing and clamouring over the little pups who licked the girls hands and wagged _their little tails_ like maniacs.

“With my compliments from the Vicarage. _One for each_ of _you_ …” He told. Judith giggled as one licked her fingers nonstop. And Edith stood and hugged her Stepfather as she thanked him profusely.

 _“Oh, Hugh,_ _how big_ they’ve grown since I _saw them_ last…” Elizabeth smiled. Accepting his hand as he helped her lower herself down to the box, to get a closer look. She dangled her hands in ad brought one of the happy bundles out, cuddling the small, warm little thing to her chest as it clamoured to lick her nose and sniff at her. Looking up at her with big, shining puppy eyes, and a small coal black nose.

“I consider it _quite Ironic_ that the biggest bundle of mischief should end himself up in _your arms_ Elizabeth…” Hugh smiled at her.

“You don’t _look_ like mischief… _Don’t listen_ to him… He _doesn’t mean it_ …” Elizabeth Cooed to the puppy who looked longingly at her as it leaned in and tried to lick her cheek. She lovingly tried to cover its ears, and shields it from his hurtful speech.

Hugh smiled at her, and she beamed back.

“How _dare you_ offend my _heavenly_ dog…” She japes. Fussing its coppery head, seeing it wagged its tail in delight.

Hugh raised a brow at her.

“Give it _three weeks_ …” He promises.

“How's their mother doing? Not _too distraught_ , is she?, _poor thing..”_ Elizabeth asked.

“ _She’s alright_ ….” He smiled, rubbing the pups velveteen ears as he watched how happy the little thing looked in the Duchesses hold. “I’ve kept one of them. Peter has one, which I’m sure will _vex_ Margaret greatly. And with these three, that’s the last three gone. All five pups found to _good homes_.” He informed her.

“What _is all this?_ I heard the cooing _from all the way_ down in my study..” Came a Duke’s voice from behind them. Thomas strode over, seeing his wife in a delectable, blue gown, and whom was apparently cuddling something small in her arms with her back to him. He had yet to see what.

Elizabeth turned, and Thomas then saw that the cuddled item in question. Had four paws that were too big for its body, long floppy ears, a wagging tail and a little wet nose.

“Who _is this?”_ He asked with a smile. His smile wide, and his voice gentle. He reached over to pet the puppy in his wife's arms.

“Meet _our new_ dog, Thomas. _Gifts_ of your new brother in law…” Elizabeth grins, beaming as she looked at the puppy, Thomas stood behind her, fondling the thing that was trying to nibble his hand.

“That’s _very kind_ of you, Hugh.” He smiled.

 _“No_ trouble. _Unlike that puppy_ that your wife now has in her arms…” He warns.

 _“I don’t_ believe _that_ …” The Duke grins, looking at the dog.

 _“Oh, but you_ … _are, very_ , sweet.. You don’t _look like trouble, do you, no?”_ Thomas cooed to the dog, lovingly.

“What shall _we call you?”_ He asks the pup.

“I know what I’m calling mine…” Edith grins.

“Let’s _hear it_...” Elizabeth smiles.

“Bronte.” She smiles.

 _“Very great_ name, Ed.” Elizabeth winks.

“Judith?” Elizabeth asks.

“I want _mine_ …..to _be called_ …….” Judith thought long, and hard, for a five year old.

“ _Sprout.”_ She finally announced.

Elizabeth smiled down at her.

“Sprout _it is…”_ She smiles. Trying not to let her face catch up with her true feelings.

"Your a _lovely_ boy. _Aren't you? Yes._ You know you _are_.." Thomas spoke in a mushy voice to the puppy as it licked the top of his nose.

He looked down to see Edith, Judith and Hugh making highly amused faces at him. Trying not to snort into laughter at hearing their stern uncle babble lovingly to the puppy in a pitchy voice.

“ _What?”_ He asked them all.

They made no further response, as they looked back into the crate. Trying not to burst out laughing. It was at this point that Wilkin’s sauntered over with the silver post tray perched flat on his hand. And headed for the Duchess.

“A letter came, just now for you, Mi’Lady.” He told her.

She offloaded the puppy into Thomas’s arms. Well, in actuality, she handed him over as Thomas had already started to wrench him away out of her hold, only _all too gladly_. Babbling inane coos to the puppy.

“I think, _we_ should _call you_ …. _Marlowe._ _You look_ like a Marlowe. Do _you care_ for _Shakespeare?_ _Hm?”_ Thomas asked.

Elizabeth shook her head at him, as she unfolded the latter, not checking the hand. And when she read the second line, under her addressed name. As she read along, her face fell and her mouth hung open as she read. A little whispered ‘ _oh god’_ before her hand covered her forehead, her mouth fell open slack, and she looked both upset and panicked.

_She had completely forgotten about this..._

“ _What is it?”_ Her husband asked her.

Elizabeth slapped on a fake smile, and lovingly reached over to caress her husbands arm, as she nervously bit her lip.

 _“Darling_ , now, please don’t be angry…” She began.

Thomas narrowed his eyes at her.

“Why _do people always_ _seem to say exactly tha_ t when they are subsequently _just about_ to render me _rather angry_ …” He asks, glaring at her

“Try to remember I’m pregnant with your child and horribly burdened with back pain, and severe case of...”

Thomas looked at her stonily.

“Speak…” He ordered, with narrow, piercing eyes and with his spectrum of patience _rapidly thinning…_

“Well. My _lovely, darling_ , _handsome and wonderful_ , Duke…. _Um._ We’ve had to suffer _the burdens_ of your family visitors _popping in_ out of the blue….. _so_ …” She trails off.

Thomas raised a disbelieving brow at her. Shifting the puppy, Marlowe, in his hands, as she held out the letter for him to see what it read. The letter was addressed from Castle Alderth, Scotland, near Loch Kinloch Rannoch.

Apparently, they were shortly to expect, several, _red headed, brawny_ visitors from way far up north…

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since the estrangement, Thomas has wholeheartedly embraced the concept of leaving small, little gifts arund the house for Elizabeth, for her to find. A pair of pearl droplet earrings sat in a box on her desk. Little folded up poems, that he’d penned himself, or famous romantic verses slipped under her pillow or into her dresses, that fluttered out when she put them on. A flower left on her empty plate at her place on the breakfast table, Or a stiff, shiny new book with golden tipped pages deposited into her bedside drawer. Her favourite one so far, (Because it made her laugh so in how poor it was) was a short verse, written by his own hand, slipped into her dressing gown pocket, one morning. It read; ‘My Heart, My darling Elizabeth, With skin so pale and fair, Your blue eyes enchant me, Your body quite disarms me, You haunt my dreams with your Rossetti red hair.’ but, her favourite one yet, is simply a little note, one line, that reads: 'You are not a woman who needs a man. You are the woman this man needs.'


	109. Mad Librarians, John Donne, and Handsome, Strapping Scots...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided I had to put in a meet-cute. Any good? You decide.... It's funny, typing this I couldn't help but think of that bit in the first mummy film, when Rachel Weiz drunkenly goes "I......am a ..Librarian." That's *so* Edith. It made me chuckle writing this. and If I had an alternative name for this chapter it would be simply; 'The Librarian and The Scot' cause I kind of love that...
> 
> And as for the pronunciation: here's a few pointers which I myself had to learn;
> 
> -Mac Aoidh - (Mac-Eye)   
> -McKurick - (Muck-er-rick)  
> -Thalla's Caigann Bruis (Thallas-cagan-bruh-oose)

 

 

~ Castleton Public Library ~

~ Edith's Glasses ~

~ Edith's Uniform ~

~ The lovely, wonderful, portable magic, that is books ~

~ Introducing, The strapping Scot, William Mac Aoidh Finley McKurick ~

 

~

 

It was a _slow day_ in the library.

But then, Edith would be kidding herself, and telling a very tall, grand tale, if she said there _was ever_ a _brisk day_ in the library.

There was something hypnotically beautiful about the old mausoleum atmosphere of the place. Castleton’s one and only public library was safely tucked away down Duke’s Row, a branched avenue just off the main high street, so it wasn’t hard to find. But still, _not many_ came to burst through it’s doors nowadays. If someone wanted books, they were more likely to go to the small, well stocked, overstuffed shelves of Gulliver  & Sterling’s Book Emporium just two streets away. But there seemed to be _too much_ pressure to pick a title, pay, and leave. _Here_ , was where Edith found true freedom as an avid lover of literature. She could lose herself deep in the stacks, and have no fear of anyone turfing her out in an hours time, telling her to ‘ _buy’ or ‘leave_.’ Gulliver  & Sterling were businessmen set out to make a profit. The Library, _barely_ survived on the measly pennies slotted into the donations box in the drafty entryway, but it didn’t promise clinincal business and instant dismissal and nothing else the second your pennies were behind the till in the shopkeepers hand. It promised warmth, and the comfort of wisdom, and the written word, _for as long_ as was needed, by _whomever_ needed it. Its old, worn shelves begged for attention, and the old, cracked spines of ancient texts clamoured to be touched, devoured and treasured unendingly by any welcome strangers hand.

It had been run for the past thirty years by three women, all of whom were now _thoroughly elderly_ , and would never boast a chance of finding the academics section, let alone reaching a top shelf, or helping one of the, _sadly very few in number_ , customers who came in seeking after a particular title.

Edith had to witness a travesty just last week, when a young woman and her son came in, and asked after a copy of Jules Vernes short story, ‘ _A Voyage in a Balloon.’_ She had to watch in barely contained misery and embarassment as the very sweet, _but very deaf_ , Mrs Ariel Neckett the Librarian, exclaim with a shocked blink behind her thick owl spectacles, that she’d _never heard_ of such a _riotous tale_. Edith shut her eyes and ‘ _thunked’_ her head against the nearest mahogony bookshelf in dismay. After a discouraged child and mother left, she distinctly heard Mrs Neckett mumble something under her breath along the lines of ‘ _sordid, fantastical nonsense. How could one go on a voyage in a babboon, I say?..’_ She’d asked herself as she spread more marmalade over her scones and sipped her earl grey and fennell tea.

Suffice to say, Edith tore a rip in her skirts, and probably defied all decent ettiquette hitching her skirts above her calves as she _shot off_ after the pair down the high street, no doubt making a _spectacle_ of herself. Her golden glasses dangling _dangerously close_ to falling off the perch of her nose. She was sure she damaged a ligament in her leg as she ran. But eventually, weaving through crowds, she caught them up. Her hair straggled and mussed. Her cheeks reddened to a cherry pink from the run, and through her panting for breath, she pressed the book into the childs hand, and saw that his smile and eagerness for the book was plenty of thanks enough for her. She imparted her wisdom that he might particularly enjoy the escapades on page four. And she puffs and limps her way back to the masoleum and back to all the old termigants she had the misfortune and strife to run a library with.

But, it was not _all bad._ Though Mrs Neckett was _mad as a march hare_ , she was forever bringing everyone home baked goods. Trouble was, not _all_ her faculties were polished and shining, and this meant that there was a _slightly fair_ chance that her fruit crumbles or cobblers mistakenly contained salt, rather than sugar. Or that it would be an assortment of flavours in a fruit loaf that should not belong in the same _cupboard, let alone_ the same cake tin. The finest example being of last week when she brought in a lemon curd and onion chutney cake. And Edith didn’t even want to _think_ about today’s monstrosity, awaiting her, wrapped in baking parchment and tied in string, sitting cunningly in her satchel – ‘ _saved for later, Mrs N’_ she had fibbed. Mrs Neckett had promised her it was cherry and almond. Edith was dreading taking a bite and finding that she’d seasoned it with _garlic or parsley_ , or some other _foul_ herb that _had no right_ even being _near_ a cherry cake.

After the mad Mrs Neckett, there was Mrs Letitia Hodgkiss, she too, was kind and friendly, never without her hair in a bun. And forever was she dusting and tidying up around the library, when she wasn’t sat knitting one of her many grandchildren jumper’s of ghastly colours in the rocking chair in the tea room. A wool rug about her knees, and offering anyone who came close, a striped humbug from her pocket, _it just wasn’t_ the Library without the sound of the click of her needles, and the creak of the wooden chair as it rocked back and forth. Mrs Hodgkiss made Edith know how it was to pine and imagine after what having her for grandmother would be like. Not like her own unfortunate, draconian, ogress of a Grandmother. _Who’d never_ offered her sweets, or enquired if she’d like a knitted pair of mittens, or a victoria and beetroot sponge even. And Grandmama Kenworthy probably didn’t even _know_ _which end_ of a knitting needle was _up_ if her life depended on it.

The third, and perhaps, most stern of the three was Mrs Mirabell Norris. In her earlier youth, she had been a mistress at a young boy’s boarding institution. She always wore black in mourning after the late Mr Norris, whom, Edith understands was the apple, and sparkle of her eye. Though she would never so much as utter his name. Her eyes held one expression, narrow, and that was that. She was permanantly drifting silently around the library like a black ghoul. Dusting shelves and not paying much interest to anyone who _came in, nor worked_ there. At first, Edith found her intimidating. How she _glowered_ down at people either side of her hooked, pointed nose with shallow boredom in her pale grey eyes, it made Edith go a little meek. But then _, oh then_ , she had talked to the woman about poetry, _and oh,_ how _she lit up._ She _adored_ Thomas Hardy, she was _atremble_ at even hearing Matthew Arnold, and she _simply worshipped_ Robert Browning. Porphyria’s Lover was her ultimate favourite, and ever since Edith had taken the time to discover this, she found Mrs Norris’s presence to be a lot less unsettling. She was a kind woman, once the tough porclain of her exterior was cracked open, inside which, there was a caring, frail woman who, much like Edith, adored literature. But tended to by shy, and unapproachable if there were books near to be had. She started to smile more, Edith had noticed, even when offering her a cup of tea, or asking her if she’d indexed the new Chaucer volumes yet. Edith was glad of it, she accepted her three, mad, wise new friends with relish. Plus there was the library…

Edith loved the dusty, echoing old place more and more with each passing day.

It crept sluggishly further and further into her heart the more time she devoted to it. It was an enchanting old ruin, this place, run by friendly, mad characters who wouldn’t be _completely out_ of place in a whacky Lewis Caroll story.

She liked how the place was, at times, colder than the arctic, and drafty as hell. She liked how it smelt of dust, wood, and old leather. The warm, cosy smell that could only come from the hundreds of age old, leather and paper books. The musty, definable scent of literature and leisure that was finer than _any_ fragrance bottled, to her mind. There was the main floor, which had a front desk, and a small, comfy tea room behind that. The main floor of the library was a huge tiled floor, with shelves so tall, there were ladders to reach the top. Shelves lined all around the outer edge of the room, and up a spiral stairscase, there was a balcony that ran around the entire edge of the room. Leading up to the large, grey domed ceiling that looked cannily like a church. There was an odd armchair, or chairs and tables dotted throughout the zoom.

She had just finished her short break with a cup of tea, and nibbled at the strawberry shortcake that Ethel had made her that morning. Still warmed, buttery and crumbly, wrapped in a gingam cloth, stuffed secretly down in her bag, before Mrs Neckett offered her a slice of ginger and mustard cake. She strode back to the returns pile, which was unusually heavy today, and got back to work.

She carried the very verbose stack along to the fiction aisle, cradling the stack under her chin as she walked along. Taking one from the top, and peering down through her reading glasses to get a better look at its title. Mumbling to herself as she went along. For her library uniform she had to forgo a finely crafed, white lace dress which she habitually clothed herself in. For handling dusty books, and clambering up and down shelves, she wore instead a blue cotton, that reached just shy of her ankles, and the sleeves came to her elbows, with big thick sturdy, brown ankle boots protecting her feet in case she dropped any books by mistake, dainty little slippers just wouldn’t do. She also had a thick, tan belt cinched at her waist, showing how her skirts flowed down her willowy figure. The skirts were streaked with grey dust, as was now the front of her dress as she clutched the books. Her hair that she had painstakingly put up in pins earlier, looked bedraggled now, sinking down at the nape of ner neck, straggling into her eyes and face. She huffed, tossing her annoying hair out of her way, as she mumbled to herself, seeing where she needed to return the book to it’s rightful home.

“Tower of London, W.H Ainsworth…” She grumbled under her breath. “Where do _you belong_ then?” She asks, walking to the Social and Politcial sciences section that she had painstakingly stayed late, til almost ten in the evening last week to organise. Her Uncle had given her light hearted grief for that, saying she should send word ahead so he doesn’t have to go out of his head with worry next time. She apologised, lolloped upstairs with the little energy she had left, and slumped onto her bed in her dusty dress, falling dead asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. She awoke the next morning, safely tucked in bed, her boots laid neatly by her bed. A steaming cup of tea on her bedside table, and a note from her Aunt pinned under a brand new stack of books that Edith had been dying to read, telling her to ‘ _carry on the good work.’_ She had grinned at that.

She walked to the relevent section, grunting in annoyance as she saw that to get to the ‘W’ involved climbing up a tall ladder to restore it to its rightful place. She shuffled her stack of books onto the small space there was to be had, and clambers up the ladder, holding her skirts aloft out of the way of her feet, and the book in the same hand. She got to the top, still hating heights, but she had a job to do, that outweighed her propensity for fear. She stretched her arm out, hearing the ladder creak as she strained to lean over. She looked down, her stomach hitting her knees as she swallowed back the anxiety that clogged thick in her throat. She took a breath, before she shuffled her body over to the far side of the ladder, she tried once more, inch by inch, she carefully tried to get to it again.

“… _Of course, a wiser person would have moved the ladder before they got on in the first place, Edith, you imbecile-“_ She huffs in annoyance and anger to herself under her breath,

Irritated with herself, and not paying to much heed to how much the ladder was cracking, and creaking as she leaned off it, she moved quickly, gritting her teeth as she finally got the book edge slotted onto the lip of the shelf she’d be trying to hard to reach.

A sudden jolt of the ladder, caused her stomach to shrink up in dread, and her body to jolt with sickening shocks bursting through her as the ladder began to fall sideways with her on it, the wheel having snapped clean off from under the right leg. Before she could even scream and tumble a long, long way down to the hard tiled floor, her hands scrabble for the shelf in front of her, and she tries her best to grab on tight. She had screwed her eyes shut. She felt a steadying, unknown force from below adjust the ladder to sit flat on both feet.

“ _Woah, woah there_ …It’s alright, Miss, I _got ye.”_

Her eyes snapped open on hearing the burr in the voice behind her. It was a _Scottish_ accent unless she was very much mistaken. She stayed stock still, both arms wrapped around the ladder, just focusing on her breathing deep, in and out. After a few long seconds, she tried to peer round, but her hair got in front of her vision. He must have been stood directly behind her, holding the ladder, when she loked round, she could see nothing but a pair of grubby boots, ending thick, athletic legs under well worn black breeches, that had been so well worn, in fact, they were a dull shade of dark grey.

“Are _ye alright?_ ” The rasping, soft voice enquires again. He didn’t sound old, matter of fact, he sounded fairly young.

She heard him chuckle softly and amusingly as he watched her flounder in nervousness.

“Ye _can come down_ now _. I dinna bite, lassie_..” He spoke, and she could hear the smile in his tenor of his lulling voice.

Her brain chided her for being a fool, she couldn’t stay up here _forever_ , even though her heart was beating so fast, she could feel it pound through her dress. But she wasn’t entirely sure if it was the shock of nearly falling to injury off the ladder, or whether it was the unexpected scot stood suddenly behind her. Slowly, one foot after the other, she descends the ladder, adoring the feeling of her feet hitting solid ground once more. She carefully turns around, feeling like a baby doe under the watchful eyes of a hungry fox.

She turns, and takes a look at her savior.

She looses her breath all over again.

If there was any _doubt_ he was scottish, it was sharply discarded by the assualting copper red of his curly locks. He had a sturdy, well defined, solidly formed jaw, and a chiseled nose and chin. Perfectly sat in the plane of his face. The copper stubble on his face told her he was somewhere between a boy and a man. He beheld a classically handsome beauty, with a straight nose, an attractive pair of sloping lips which looked kissable when they smiled at her in the manner that they were currently doing. His eyes however, were the first thing that captured her attention, shaped like slanted almonds, so blue it was assualting to any shade of blue ocean imaginable. The feline, cats eyes wrinkled a little at the corners, and underneath as he grinned down at her. He wore clothes that were not all that common to find in Derbyshire. He wore breeches, and scruffy old grey boots. On his top half, however, he wore a softly tailored, black velvet jacket, underneath a grey waistcoat and pristine white shirt and tied blue cravat. That bit wasn’t odd, what made him stand out from the crowd, however, would be the thick, heavy bolt of brown, grey and blue tartan fabric draped over one shoulder, and secured with a round, shining silver buckled broach to the front of his left shoulder. _She had seen that pattern somewhere before, she realised… but she could not place where..._

Edith could feel her cheeks flush, hot and pink. As the frames of her glasses felt ice cold in comparison to the burning temperature of her face. Her mouth gaped, and she blinked like an owl behind her spectacles across at him. Shuffling unruly locks of dark, sable hair back behind her ears.

“I _. um_ , thank-you… _for that…_ the _uh, ladder_. I…” She stammered.

He watched her intently, struggling to get her words out.

“It’s _no bother_. Miss. Perhaps, if I may be _so bold_ as to venture my good opinion. Perhaps, next time, move the ladder over _a little_ first..” He told with mirth in his eyes, and his smile, looking at her with his smile growing wider as he did.

She nods. Managing a fleeting smile, wiping her clammy, dusty hands on her blue skirts.

“May I, _help you_ … with _something? A Book?_ Maybe?”

She asks, breaking eye contact with him, crossing back to the pile she had left on the side earlier. She caught the scent of him as she passed. Cold air, the earthy wooden moss of heather, and honeysuckle.

He couldn’t force himself to be courteous and take his eyes _off her._ _She was enchanting_. Her hair adorably mussed, straying wild and free, her cheeks flushing when he looked at her. And her pale eyes blinking curiously at him from behind the cold glass of the round spectacles. He couldn’t tell if they were grey, or blue. Or some mystical fusion of the two. He wanted to study her, this young mousy, nervous librarian. She had a hypnotic beauty when she wasn’t being shy, he could tell.

“Well. Now, I _didna_ come in here to _buy buttons_..” He jokes, stepping a little closer as she piked up the large column of books, cradling them to her willowy figure.

“A book _it is_ then..” Edith smiles gently, he smiled back at her. At the sight of the perfect, creasing dimples in his cheeks, she goes all red again, and instead turns her attention to the next book on top of the pile in her hands.

“You’re a little young, to be a librarian, are ye no’?” He asks Edith.

She twitches brow in disagreement.

“What does _age_ have to do with the _capability_ to enjoy the company of books?” She asks.

The Scot smiled.

“And, _tell me_ , Miss Librarian, do you do _anything else,_ besides keep company with books?” He asks right back.

“Not _willingly_ , No.” She smiles.

“So. Permit me... _Either_ you are a wandering scot, or you are a very long way from home, just _happening_ to be flying the Clan colours…” She asks perceptively.

 _She was canny, this lass, when she wasn’t busy being shy._ He liked her.

“We travelled down from Scotland _just this morning_.” He told her.

“And you _are here_ for a book, I presume?” Edith asks. “Not to ask me _why_ I work here…” She adds.

He chuckles at her.

“My mother, _much to her dismay_ , left her favourite copy of John Donne behind mistakenly. I wondered if you might stock it so I may _ease_ her _woes_ in leaving it miles away, at home…” He asks kindly. Those feline eyes examining her inquisitively.

“A _Long_ journey, was it?” She asks kindly.

“When you have my brothers in a carriage wi’ ye, _long_ does not even begin to cover the _length of my miserys…”_ He informed her.

Edith laughed. Her smile widening.

“Well, your in some good luck, we _have several works_ of John Donne.” She smiled. “Follow me…” She instructed, her cheeks still pink as she turned and slowly walked in the direction of the poetry section. Placing odd books on their rightful, reachable, shelves as she went. It would _be some time_ before she cared to mount another ladder again. _Trouble was, she was the only one in the library who could._

“This must be a _great_ place to work, is it no’?” The Scot asks curiously, as he followed after the reticent Librarian.

“It has its _perks_ …” Edith told. “Though I think _I’ll skip_ going up any more ladders _unsupervised_ for today…” She spoke lightheartedly.

“Well. _Please do._ Or else I’d be _obligated_ to stay and keep a careful _eye_ on ye’” He smiles, she turns and catches the twinkle in his eyes as he spoke. His arms folded behind his back as she looked cheekily across at her.

She exhaled a breathy laugh.

“I’m sure you didn’t travel _all the way_ down from scotland merely to rescue a bespectacled librarian _in distress_ …” She asks rhetorically.

He shrugs, those handsome lips twitching a sideways smirk at her.

“Well. It _hasna’_ made my day _any worse_ , lets _say that_ …” He winks.

It was unatural how that fluttering of his eyelid made stars to shoot, tingling, through her stomach.

“Here _we are_ …” Edith intercepts. “John Donne, _in all his glory_ …” She smiles, placing the managable pile of books down now. Gesturing to the small section of green leather bound novels housed on the shelves before them.

 _“Which_ book of his, was it your mother was missing?” She asks, placing her back to him as she pulled them partially from the shelf to check which was which. His eyes found an odd amount of pleasure in watching the nape of her neck, her lily white skin peeking through the dark, shrouding ink of her hair. He realised he hadn’t answered, and snapped himself out of the stupour of admiring her.

“I, uh, believe it was, _his first_ volume of collected poetry…” He told her, those cats eyes breaking a pattern of gentlemanly chivalry, and watching her slender, pale hands gently pluck a book from its nesting space on the shelf.

“This _is the_ one..”

Edith smiled, glad she was able to help him. She handed the green book over to him, and he reached to take it, their fingertips brushed ever so slightly, and sparks flew through her hand. She swallowed, and quickly retracted her hand, it may have been her imagination, but his fingers lingered a _little too long_ in meeting to her own on the books cover.

"Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die." He repeated softly.

Edith smiled.

"Very good. The Good-Morrow I believe?" She asked.

He smiled a nod at her.

"If ye' didn't know it, I'd consider a position working here wasted on ye'" He beamed.

 _“Móran taing.”_ He ushers softly. She knew enough paltry shreds of gaelic to recognise ‘ _Thank-you’_ when she heard it. _Plus_ , Elizabeth had taught her a _few useful phrases_.

 _“Se do bheatha.”_ She returns, ‘ _Your welcome’_ Seeing he smiled, impressed that she knew gaelic. Their eyes locked for a magical, long, heated moment.

Edith was the first to break away.

“I just have to stamp it before you go..” She smiles.

She walks back to the main desk, Seeing none of the other old harridan’s she worked with could be seen. She took the book from him once more, and with a gentle smile, laid it flat and punched an inky mark on the inside cover.

“Are you staying long in Derbyshire?” She asked as she handed it back across to the smiling Scot.

“Not long _, no_. My mother hasn’t decided to tell us _how long_ we are to stay here…”

“Staying with family?” She asks kindly.

 _“Yes_ , we are.” He nods.

“Thankyou for _the book. Miss Librarian_.” He ushers softly.

“Thankyou for the gallant _rescue,_ _Mr. Scot_.” She grins back.

A loud presence bursting through the door caught both their attentions for a second. And when she looked around, she saw someone who was obviously related to him. They too were draped in the same bolt of dark tartan, and had hair redder than carrots sporuting from their head, turning to fire in the sunlight, pouring in from the door behind them. He too was a strapping, well built boy, alike the one who stood before her. He had the same sturdy face, but his hair was shorter, less wild, like untamed heather, and his eyes were piercingly green, his face was chiseled and pointed, and they shared the same chin.

“She sent ye’ in here _for one_ book, _Mac Aoidh._   _dammnit_. _Ye lazy gommeral. How long does it take?_ Will ye’ _hurry up and stop flirtin’_ with young _lassies’_. I’m achin’ to get there _before nightfall_ …” The relative gruffed harshly.

“I’m comin’. _Hush your creenin_ , you _wee scunner_. I don’t care how tall ye’ get. I’m _still the_ oldest. And I’ll _still clip_ yer lugs for _ye’ if_ ye’ talk to _me like that_ ‘gain _._ ” He spoke back. 

"Away, now n'thalla's cagainn bruis." 

Scot the Elder growled sternly. With a angry sigh, turning on his heel, Scot the younger dissapeared out of the library door, back down into the street.

Edith didn't recognise all the words in his brusque cursing. But she could only imagine as she recognised the word 'brush' mixed in there somewhere for some unknown reason. 

“I best get going’ fore he tries his luck at _scelping m_ e.” He smiled to Edith. Before he stooped into a curt bow.

“I thank _ye, greatly_ , fer’ yer’ help wi’ the book. I hope _I’ll be seein’ ye’.”_

He reached across and took her hand, raising it to his lips, he placed a kiss to the back of it, those blue cats eyes watching her all the while. Watching her cheeks _flush_ once again. This time, it crept down her neck, and flourished on her pale chest.

“Dinna’ try any more ladders _, lass._ I _should hate_ ye’ to come to harm without someone there to _save ye’ next time._ ” He smiles.

Edith tucks a coil of misbehaving hair behind her ear, as she watched him straighten and head for the door.

“You have my word.” She smiles back.

He bows a nod to her, before he too turns, framed in sunlight, tearing his eyes away, and bounding down the steps quickly, his strong, athletic legs carrying him with easy grace. Unable to help it, she watched him, sauntering slowly to the nearest bookshelf, and resting her head against it as she stood, watching until he moved off out of sight, springing off down the street in the ochre sunlight of late afternoon. His gait happy. His hair ablaze. And she,incapable to draw her eyes from him, the enchanting scot, she muttered, softly to herself…

“… _I am lit, for he is beautiful beyond compare. The boy with blue eyes…..and fire for hair…”_ She murmurs lovingly, softly, to herself.

She swallows, turning back, straightening her skirts, reluctantly getting back to work. All the while, visions of blue salty oceans and crackling, blazing flames danced in her mind, driving her to absolute distraction.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Edith was young, she always vowed she would never leave Iris all on her own. She promised she would end an old maid, and keep Iris company. Iris worries now that she will marry Hugh, that Edith will be lonely. Though Edith would never admit it, she is, seeing how happy her mother and stepfather are, and her devoted Aunt and Uncle, she longs to find a love of her own. In the mean time, she has her books. But, she always wonders, whom on earth, she thinks, with a reasonable brain in their heads, would look twice at the bookish, shy, niece of a Duke? 
> 
> Poem at the end - Chrissy Ann Martine, I believe...
> 
> And, 'Thalla's cagainn bruis'... Is Gaelic for 'away and chew a brush'


	110. Scottish Relations, Tyrannical Wives, and Promise of Good Fortunes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Gaelic translated:  
> Mo dhia - (mo-dee-a) My God.  
> Mo Chroí - (mo-kr-Oi) My Dear  
> Mo stór - (mo-store) My Darling  
> Amadain - (Ah-mad-ain) Fool  
> Mo ghràidh - (mo-gr-eye) My Sweetheart  
> A Grá - (a-grah) My Love  
> Co-ogha (co-ag-ha) Cousin  
> Sassenach - (sass-en-ac) English Person

 

 

~

 

 

Thomas stuck his head through the connecting door to his wifes study sometime near noon. The sun shone gleefully, the wind was barely existant and it seemed as if the weather too was putting on its Sunday best to please their shortly arriving visitors from up north. He peered in, to see his wife at her usual place behind her desk, teacup in hand, spectacles on, and making corrections to the Chatsworth tenants ledger with her ink pen. Dressed today in her finest, emerald velvet gown, trimmed with silk of the same colour. The open window shining sun in from directly behind her turned her hair to fire. Her pale, fine face sloped gently in concentration. The steam from her tea danced up into the air, giving her an aura of serene, quiet bliss.

He smiled, in noticing she hadn’t spotted him yet. So he swayed his lanky, tall frame into the room, and let the noise of the shutting door behind him jolt her out of her working, beautiful reverie.

“According to the word of Ashby, my dearest, _by the pricking of my thumbs, s_ _omething wicked this way comes…”_ He grinned across to her.

She looked up, caught his eyes, and beamed back. Sighing at his immature behavior.

“Is that some _personal_ slight on my relatives, shaming them with lines from Macbeth?…” Elizabeth asked, eyeing him with a dangerous, piercing glare from behind the glasses. Before making another mark in the ledger as she spoke.

“…Because _I warn you_ now, repeat that in front of them and _they won’t like it_.” She cautions.

Thomas folds his hands behind his back solemnly and gives her a cheeky grin.

“I’ll be on _my best_ behavior, I give you my word..” He promises as he saunters slowly across the room.

“Good. Because what with the invasions of my dear scots, and Iris, Hugh and Judith off in Hampshire, I am feeling _somewhat odd. I’ve never_ had to cope with the house _being so empty_. I feel like a part of me is _missing_ … it feels like I'm missing _an arm_. Makes me dread to think what it will be like after Iris and Hugh are wed, and happily ensconced up at the vicarage...” She sighs a little glumly as she takes off her spectacles, and folds them in her hand.

“ _No_ captain majesty. _No_ Iris playing Chopin in her music room of a morning. And _No more_ Edith and her books.” She adds, looked dejected.

Thomas tilted his head in empathy, and reached forwards to clasp her hand lovingly. He perched to sit on the edge of her desk. One leg folded across the other.

“Listen to me, _you. Now_ , I married you, _in case you hadn’t noticed_ …” He droned lustily. She smiled at him for that.

“…And as _part_ of my _marrying you_ I promised to keep you in happiness, love, good health, and to promise to always be faithful unto you. And if keeping you happy means, taking you to London for the season so you can see the whirlwind of friends and family. _Then I’ll do it._ If it means giving you thousands and hundreds of children - _which I really hope it does_ – _Then I’ll do that too_. I would sell _all the world,_ to keep you happy, or to see you smile, my darling. The vicarage is _not so far,_ and I’m certain a day shan’t pass when we go without _seeing any_ of the Everett’s.” He pledges.

“…. Also, _don’t forget,_ come february, we’ll have our own small, stubborn bundle of Kenworthy joy to contend with.” He smiles.

“As if I could _forget_ that…” She smiles, rubbing a hand over her prominent bump. As she eases her desk chair back, and comes to stand. Every time he takes in how much more the bump had grown, he can’t deny it always sent a paternal thrill of possessiveness, and vehement joy to shoot through his body on seeing it.

The hand that previously held hers, now found a place in slinking towards the back of her velvet covered hip, and tugged her close. Pressing Into the space his parted legs vacated as he brought her into his arms, Happily resting his crossed arms across her hips. Hers pressed flat to his shoulders. Looking down at him, her fingers reached up to idly play with a strand of inky hair that fell over his forehead. His thumbs stroked over her taut belly. He hummed a low growl of smiling approval as she reached back and cupped the side of his strong, pale neck.

“Weren’t we expecting…. _guests?_ …” She trailed off as her husband leaned close, shuddering a moan, and a kiss onto her neck, and makes her smile, and lose all resistance. Anything he’d ask of her now, he’d get. With his lips on her neck, he could have any little thing he desired of her. And she had a feeling he knew it, too.

He nuzzled his head further into her neck, causing her to tilt her head to the side, and gasp as his lips found a spot that set her alight. His hands squeezed her tighter, and her eyes fluttered shut as she gasped breathily. Seeing this caused him to smirk, halfway through sucking a love bite onto her pale throat.

 _“Oh_ , they were _far away enough_ for me to _seduce_ my wife first...” He informed her, one hand reaching back to cup her ass in his hand. Caressing her supple body.

She doesn’t know how, but somehow, she eventually finds the strength to break away from the romantic, sensual thrill of his lips on her skin. Creating space between their bodies that left her feeling sore, aching for more of his touch.

He delighted in finding that her neck and chest were now flushed a charming scarlet pink. It didn’t bode well for terms of his behaving well, that his eyes were now an incredibly dark blue. Those were his dangerous eyes, the eyes that reminded her of a _hungry wolf_.

“Foyer, _now.”_ She intructs.

“You said _bedroom_ wrong.. _”_ He growled, nipping her neck.

“ _Thomas_ …” She presages.

He unwillingly lets her go.

“Not my fault you’re _so alluring_ to me…” He purrs, taking his hands off her, and watching her cross to the mirror on the wall nearby to see if he had noticably mussed her chignon. His eyes burned holes into her back as he watched her go.

“It _becomes_ _your fault_ when you might make us rudely late to greet our relatives, who, have travelled an acutely uncomfortable, _long_ , journey to be here may I remind you…”

Thomas made a very Dukely face of strong disagreement.

 _“If,_ dear husband, I said _‘yes’_ to you _every time_ _you wished_ to seduce me, _I’d never_ get off my back.” She smiled lustily at him in the reflection. To which he leered back.

“And I, dear wife, would never come out from between _your lovely, pale_ thighs…” He cooed.

She walked back over to him, pressed a kiss to his lips, and tugged his hand, to bring him to a stand behind her as he began to walk. Out of the study, and along the halls to the foyer. They eventually drew even, and Thomas linked her arm to rest in the crook of his elbow.

“If someone _told me_ having a husband would be like having to care after a _fully grown, boy child_. I may have had a mind to stay a spinster…” Elizabeth grinned at her husband.

Thomas looked dangerous again.

“I’ll get you for that _… later.”_ He promises, leaning close to whisper. _“Remind you of how much of man I can be…”_ Comes the low guarantee being hummed into her ear.

She shakes her head in disapproval.

“ _By the way,_ My uncle wrote he’d quite like to _take a drink_ with _you_.” Elizabeth told.

“Well, that sounds reasonable. I daresay it almost sounds like I’ve _earned_ his respect…” Thomas adds.

The smile on Elizabeth’s face said _far too much_ for his liking.

“You don’t know _much about Scots_ do you?” She asked as they came to the foyer.

Thomas frowned in bewilderment at her. Elizabeth laughed sunnily at his confusion.

“My uncle means to drink you _under the table_ , Thomas, and I’m sure my brawny male cousins _will happily join in..”_ She told him.

“You never relayed _the full_ details. Just exactly how many male cousins do you possess?” He asked her as they got to the front door, both nodding an afternoon to Wilkins who opened the door for them to glide through. Out onto the sun drenched gravel drive. The sky was merrily blue, and the air was full of sun, warm, floral summer breezes, and birdsong.

“Well. I have, _six male_ cousins, William, Hamish, Rabbie, Tammas, Fergus and Duncan. And _one poor_ female cousin, Agnes. Then theres my wonderful Aunt Thora, and my dear, Uncle Angus.” She told him.

“ _My, my_. Agnes seem’s _heavily_ outnumbered…” He spoke in empathy.

Elizabeth smiled in glee.

“ _Oh_ , If anyone _can handle_ her brothers _, Its Agnes McKurick, you’ll see…”_ She grinned. “In fact, I think she could _outwit circles_ around them if _she chose too_. She’s _sharp_ as a tack.” She promised.

“She sounds cannily alike _a certain_ redhead I’m _very familiar_ with.” He tells. His arms go to his sides, tucked into his pockets

“She and I have our…. _Resemblances.”_ The Duchess grinned, reaching across and fixing his wonky scarlet cravat.

“I don’t care for your tone, _you vixen_ … You _worry me_ when you grin in such a complacent, secretive, manner…” He watches her curiously as, in the distance, there came the sound of gravel crunching under carriage wheels, down the far end of the drive.

“You inflict the very same _self-satisfied smirk_ , at me atleast _two dozen_ times a day…” She fought, untucking the caught material round the back of his collar. “Allow me my _fun_ for once…” She winks.

Thomas looks at her face, and his smile widened tenfold.

“… And. You recall my once stating, all _those many moon’s ago_ back in London, when I was a blushing debutante, and you a handsome, mysterious, suitor, that my _unusual_ colouring was quite a _surprise?”_ She enquires.

“I remember _fondly_..”

He smiles. Thinking how much they _had both grown_ since then, as man and wife, and as separate people. She into a great lady, of power and now having matured into a most beloved Duchess. He, from a spoilt, prideful bachelor, into a husband, a father-to-be and a man of all sensible reason and feeling.

“I think you are _shortly_ about to discover where abouts in the family it _originates_ from…” She beams. Placing a single kiss to his cheek.

He eyes her curiously, but not for much longer, as two, sturdy, sleek carriages arced across the drive, and shuddered to a stop in front of them both. Before the carriage had even properly stilled, the door flew open and out came a booming scottish cry of gladness and warmth, directed toward the Duchess.

 _“Lizzie!_ _Och._ Come here _ma’ girl_. Gi’ ye’ favourite uncle _a kiss_ …”

Came the gallant roar from a very wide, very burly scotsman who lumbered forth from the first carriage.

_“Brace yourself, for gods sake, he’ll want to kiss you too…”_

Elizabeth muttered under her breath to her husband. Before she grins and glides forwards to greet the bear of a man who now stood beside the carriage.

He was tall, there was no denying, and even though age lie heavy on the lines of his face, by his eyes and his mouth, somewhat concealed by the bushy grey beard on his chin, his hair too, was the colour of salt and pepper, thinning only slightly on top. His eyes were set under the heavy lentils of wiry grey brows. His face wrinkled into a smile, crows feet by his eyes entirely prominent when he did so. He wore a dark, charcoal tweed suit, heavy fabric, wrapped around the thick tree trunks of his stocky legs, and the bulging, width of his arms. He was swathed from one shoulder, with a sash of blue, brown and grey tartan. A big, saucer sized buckle, lay shining in the sun against his left shoulder.

“ _Mo dhia_. Lizzie, I’m afraid to touch ye’. Ye’ look like a fine, _beautiful_ lady. Not the _lassie_ I once knew ye’ as in London. _Och,_ t’is excellent to see _ye’ gain m’dear.”_

The bear-like man thundered in his dulcet, sonorous voice. Warmly clasping Elizabeth’s hand, before outstretching his arms and practically engulfing the Duchess in a warm hug.

“Uncle Angus…” Elizabeth beams. “You’ve not _changed so I see_. Come here, _There’s someone_ I _wish_ you to meet…”

She instructs, placing a small hand on the crook of his elbow, and steering the galleon of a man towards her Duke.

“Angus McKurick, May I introduce you, to _the finest_ man in Derbyshire. _My Duke,_ Thomas Kenwworthy…”

She smiles, watching her uncle gladly embrace Thomas’s handshake, holding it firmly, and in a warm manner.

“You must be a _brave, brave lad_ , Mi’Lord, to take on _this fiesty lassie,_ single handed. As long as ever I’ve known this _fair, bonnie lass_ , I knew in ma’ heart, it’d take a _great man_ to _govern her into marriage…”_

Thomas chuckled fondly in agreement, seeing Elizabeth rolled her eyes as she smiled too.

“I don’t know that _any man_ , could single handedly govern _this Duchess_. Every _day I try_ , and every day I _fail._ ” Thomas winked to his wife. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr McKurick. Elizabeth speaks of you with great fondness…”

“ _Ach_. Call me Angus, Your Grace.” The man pleaded, his voice warm and rasping. “ _I insist…”_

“Then please, Thomas, or even just simply _, Kenworthy, will do.”_ The Duke smiled.

Elizabeth smiled watching the exchange, before sidling over to greet her aunt as she spoke up from the carriage.

“Angus. Would you no’ wait fer the damned carriage to _stop first_ , before you _leap_ out next _time? You big lummox…”_

Came the silvery drawl from inside the carriage, before Elizabeth watched her Aunt come into view from the dark carriage, batting her children’s protests away. So help her, she wanted to be the _first_ to seize the moment to climb out and embrace her niece.

She hadn’t rid herself of her striking beauty in her old age. She possessed a pale, thin, yet beautifully oblong face, with angular cheekbones, and a soft chin. Her eyes were dark pools of russet, which looked near amber in the sunlight. The soft, aged skin of her face delightfully complimented by the sharp fire of her colouring. Indeed, _all_ her children shared in it. The blazing ochre of copper hair did indeed stem from the small, yet robust, elegant woman who was their mother. Thora Elspeth Mac Aoidh McKurick.

She _practically floated_ down from the carriage, beaming as she swayed down, and right into the embrace of her niece. She wore a high necked, blue satin dress, with a brown fur swathed about her shoulders. Her golden red hair wound in a plaited chignon on her head, earrings of mishapen fresh water pearls dangled from her lobes, and there was something in the wide, omnipotent stretch of her smile that gave off her doubtless authority, and her easy capability to handle eight, scottish, stubborn, brawling boys with no more than a meagre _twitch_ of her mouth, or a _casting, cautionary glance_ of her amber eyes. She held the proclivity to be _extremely_ dangerous to cross words with, yet at the same time, she looked as tranquil, and as fetching as a figure from a Waterhouse painting.

“Auntie Thora…”

Elizabeth smiled as the woman kissed her cheek, before pulling her into the warmest, most congenial hug. The elder woman looked heartened. Groaning in pleasure as she pulled back and cupped Elizabeth’s cheek. Admiring her.

 _“Mo Chroí. Your glowing._ Your father wrote us of your anouncement of the _wee bairn_ not hours after you _teld him_. I’m _so happy_ for ye’ Lizzie.” Thora grinned, before she looked over to see Thomas, and Angus walking toward them.

“This must be your handsome Duke, _Mo stór._ He’s a dashing, dark _stallion_ of a man, if ever I _saw one.”_ Thora whispered, winking to Elizabeth. Looking at Thomas with shining, sparkling interest in her eyes. 

“I’m _rather besotted_ with him myself…” Elizabeth grinned back as she took her Aunt’s arm, and they stepped forwards to meet him.

Thora smiled wickedly. “ _Even a fool could see why_.” She flattered.

“Thomas, this is my Aunt. Thora. The _most formidable_ woman you will ever lay eyes on…” Elizabeth grinned. Thomas took Thora’s gloved hand and kissed it as he bowed.

Angus gruffed out a booming laugh.

“If she’s only _just formidable_. Then I’m the _Queens bloomers_.”

Angus chortled. Thomas and Elizabeth grinned too. And Thora sent her husband (whom she was a slip of a thing in comparison to his bear like form) a clipping swat to his shoulder for that. She wasn’t so flexible as to let such a comment pass without a raised, copper brow, and a sharp, frightening, to be feared glare from those pale, ochre eyes.

“Lady McKurick. It is a pleasure.” Thomas grinned civilly.

“Oh, _my dear_ man. From the things my brother Richard, _and your wife,_ writes me of ye’, the pleasure will _be entirely_ our own.” She flattered.

“Well. I trust they omitted the _scandalous_ details…” He leered.

Thora’s eyes flared with glee.

“Then you’ll have to satisfy us with them _in person._ ” She presses.

_Thomas liked her instantly._

More feet thudding down from the carriage, and raucous cries see’s their coversation drawn to a halt as Elizabeth was virtually bombared with the welcoming committee of several, tall, strapping, brawny boys, that Thomas could only assume were the rowdy cousins of which she spoke. Cries of _“Co-ogha”_ and _“Lizzie.”_ Erupted and filled the air.

She bid a hello to each of her cousins, in turn of course. Agnes, the poor, suffering, only girl, waif-like and two years her junior, whose pale, rounded, innocent face was abundant with freckles, with glittering aquamarine eyes. She bounded into a warm hug that the Duchess gladly returned. Then Tammas, Rabbie and Fergus, the three, ten and three aged triplets who no one could ever tell apart. All with rusty red hair, and only slight differences to their appearance. Then Duncan, the second eldest, With his thin, carved face, the same chiseled chin as William, and eyes the colour of emerald shamrock. And then last, but never least, was Hamish, the youngest, at only ten and one years old. But he was a whirlwind of delight, and curiousity. Forever trying to follow in the footsteps of his foolish, elder brothers. But though they teased him, they loved him dearly in equal measure.

One, six footed scot in particular had captured her in a hug, hoisted her in the air and twirled her round. He had rogueishly long, shaggy curls of redder than red hair. His face was handsome and boyish, with the rare appearance of bronze stubble flecked his jaw. He had almond shaped, prussian blue, cat’s eyes, set handsomely in his sockets.

“William. _Fer gods sake._ Put her down, _you Amadain._ She’s _no’ a girl_ anymore.”

Thora chided. Her soothing, smoky tendre that had been all honey earlier, had hardened now to a voice edged to impact like hardened, _cold steel._

Elizabeth grinned as her eldest, and closest cousin replaced her feet firmly on the ground.

“ _Oh, you haven’t_ changed _one jot,_ William. _You beast.”_ She cried. Slapping his chest as he replaced her feet down onto the drive.

“Ach. _Mo ghràidh. Look at ye’._ Yer’ a proper grand lady if _ever_ I laid eyes on one. And _bonnie too_ , wi’ a _bairn_ on the way. Being so wi' child clearly _agrees_ with ye'. Yet' as Bonnie as the heather in may...”

He smiled down at her, Holding her arms out to look at her. Thomas could tell they were close, in age, and due to the warmth in his eyes and the joviality in his voice. The same way he and Iris were close. It was a deep, familial kind of love, and he was beyond pleased to see the widened, affectionate smile on her face. Seeing that smile made Thomas know he’d do _anything_ to keep it there. He’d open his home to a rowdy bunch of scots. He’d swim the channel, and he’d fight off all the armies of the world to keep her happy. _All of it, he’d do. If only to see that smile._

“And have you stopped being a rowdy child, and seeing what dangers you can get up to all in a day’s work, in the _name of adventure?_ How many bones was it _you broke_ last time I saw you, falling down _Aonach Mor_ after climbing it _?_ _All the bones in your right arm_ _wasn’t it?”_ Elizabeth asked her cousin.

“That was _nothin’ to the next excursion."_  William grinned.

 _“As ever. Mac Aoidh_ , your carefree, enthusiasm _worries_ me.” She told him.

“That’s cause yer’ _verra english. A Grá_. _”_ He drawls cheekily.

“You are a _constant, aren’t you?”_ She shook her head as she beamed.

 _“Poking_ fun at my _Englishness._ At _me and all_ my _Sassenach_ ways, and being as brawny, and as Scottish as ever you can endeavour to be. With all the _whistles and bells_ on.” The Duchess chided lovingly to her cousin.

Her cousin took her arm, and they walked back across to where, judging by the smiles and laughter on her families face as Thomas spoke to some of her younger cousins, telling them some funny story of his that they were all roaring at. He was getting on swimmingly. Wilkin’s had appeared, and moved to show her Aunt and Uncle into the house, a parlour for tea, or, knowing her Uncle, a glass of something from a _distillery,_ and a _lot stronger_.

“ _I see_ ye’ landed on yer’ feet in yer’ match then, _my dear Lizzie_.”

William spoke, nodding to the grand, yellow palace of Chatsworth, gleaming happily in the sun, every window winking in the light, in front of them. _It looked joyful_. If it were an illustration in a childrens book, it would make you happy, and cheery when you turned the page, and saw the yellow brick, the turrets, and the gleaming gardens smiling back at you.

 _“Better_ than _that._.”

Elizabeth smiled, looking ahead to her husband, grinning a stupid, lovesick grin at seeing him, happy and beaming, laughing with her family as he conversed with them. Showing the triplets and hamish his underperformed magic trick.

William looked at his cousin, then across to the man she was beaming so lovingly at. He’d _never_ seen her look such a way before...

_She looked so, utterly enchanted._

And he’d known her for _all_ of his life. Since they were children, running round Alderth like the hellions they were. He’d known her as a young debutante, wallflowered, shy, blushing and innocent. And now he had the privilege of seeing her as a grown, loving and adored Duchess. Heavy with child, and elated in her marriage match. _All her life,_ he had known his cousin had been happy, and bright, but only now did he see that her current happiness _hadn’t a patch_ on what had been her previous knowings of it.

He squeezed her hand, _tight._

“I’m verra happy to see _you so_ in love. _Mo ghràidh.”_ He tells her profoundly, watching her smile shine back up at him.

“And your husband, from what mother tells us from Uncle Richard, is the _finest_ man to walk this earth. And he’s no’ _bad_ lookin laddie _either_. No wonder you took no time in producing his heir _so quick...”_ He winked, nudging her in the side, back to his silly scottish self. She gasped. Blushed a little and slyly kicked his shin. 

“I’ll be sure to tell him you think him _handsome_.” She japes.

“ _Ach, tragic_ you still think yourself _a fine_ comedian…” He winces. “Or, as my dear mother would say. _‘Vulgarity, William, is no substitute fer wit.’ ”_ He crooned, mocking his mother’s shrill tone.

“Careful, or _she’ll hear_ you. And if she does not, I _shall be sure_ to point it out to her.” Elizabeth funned, nudging him in the side.

“ _Ye’ look_ like a lady, _Sassenach,_ but I see you haven’a _become one.”_ He taunted.

Luckily, so as to avoid a scuffle like the scraps and tussles they had when they were children, they made it across to the aforesaid Duke – _unscathed_ – to introduce her eldest cousin to Thomas properly, in a formal manner.

“Thomas, this strapping young rascal, is my Eldest cousin. William.” Elizabeth told.

Thomas reached forwards, and both men clasped hands, and shook firmly. Exchanging a warm greeting.

“I must congratulate you on getting this, mulish, obstinate Vixen so easily into a marriage wi’ ye’, with so little struggle.” William prodded fun at his Co-ogha. Smiling gleefully at her.

 _“Well. Lord_ knows it wasn’t _an easy_ route. But the rewards far outweigh the challenges.”

He smiled lovingly as Elizabeth glided to his side, his hand finding hers and squeezing it lovingly.

“And being head over heels in love made it _rather easy_ to woo her.” He added.

“Half my brothers, meself, and ma father would draw their broadswords to yer’ throat if they believed you _didna’ love_ nor cherish, _our_ Lizzie.” William warned, lightheartedly.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Thomas smiled appealingly at the man. 

He had to go and be all Scottish. 

“Then rest assured for the sake of my throat. Mr McKurick, that I am utterly, wholeheartedly, devoted to this lady, I’d give my life for her without a second thought, and I’ve _no mind_ to be anything otherwise.”

Thomas pressed with sincerity in his voice, and stern, seriousness sparkling intently in his eyes. Showing the stout hearted, young scot, that he could be equally as protective as he, when it came to his Elizabeth.

“ _They said_ you were a _good, generous man_. Now I _believe_ it.”

“My throat’s very happy to hear of it.” Thomas japed. He didn't blame the lad, if he had any female relations, he’s say the same to any suitor who he hadn’t yet met.

“Alright well, now we’ve established there won’t be pistols on the lawn, at dawn. May I suggest we go inside and take tea, and you..” She turned and pointed a finger at Thomas.

“I love you very much, my dear, and _I thankyou lovingly_ for the kind words. But don’t think for a _minute_ I ever exist _merely_ to be an ornamental wife, I have _proven otherwise_ _time and time over…”_ She tells.

“ _…And you…_ ” She turned her attention on William.

 _“For gods sake_ , we don’t live in the dark ages anymore, Mac, I hope you trust in my sensibilites enough to stop being so _damn scottish_ , and overprotective, and care that I chose to marry a very wonderful man for all the right reasons. And I don’t need anyone watching after my back, for me. If there was ever anyone on earth who didn't need a defender, you’ll find, it'll be me. Now.” She smiled, finishing her rant.

“I hope you’ll drop the scottishness, and celtic humour when you get inside. Because then you’ll be in _my domain, Mac Aoidh_. And I warn you, I am a Duchess now, I can treat you like any other Duchess would treat her relations.” She warns. “ _Poorly._ ” She then added.

William nodded. _She was a stubborn constant too._

Thomas stood with raised brows watching them banter back and forth. He sighed, looking fearful, but teasing.

“I can tell this will make _me rather tired_. William, you better come inside and sit down with the rest of your family. I don’t pretend to possess _the energy_ to keep up with such a tyrannical totalitarian _of a wife…”_ He groused.

William roared into laughter at the offended look on his cousins face.

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Elizabeth shared one of their recent 'romantic reunions' in the middle of Chatsworth's rose garden. He came upon her, on his usual morning walk on the grounds, reading a book, they embraced, shared a kiss, one thing led to another, and before they could help it... they found themselves overcome with passion. Needless to say. Bartley, the gardener was very surprised to find a ladies stocking drifting in the wind on a rosebush. Not knowing how on earth it got out there...


	111. Unknown Matchmaker's, Drunken Duke's, and Fateful Meetings...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mhac Na Galla - (Mac-na-Gallah) Son of a Bitch.

 

 

~

 

 

As it turns out, Edith doesn’t get home much before eleven o’clock in the evening. They had to face a rather large disaster in the library, whereby an errant child swinging against the bookcase, ended up toppling the weighty shelf into the next, and like dominoes, they fell down with an almighty crash, sending the books happily housed there, scattering to the floor. It took almost an hour to summon some strong help to put the place to rights, and then another three in order to just get all the books sorted once again. Not to say anything of sorting them back onto the shelves in their proper alphabetical order. As she hadn’t even had a _spare second_ to send a letter home to Chatsworth to tell them of her _calamity_ of a day. And how long it would delay her.

Which in turn meant, that the carriage, or the pony and trap, weren’t summoned ready to fetch her home. Which in turn meant that she had to walk home, which, usually she didn’t mind. Except, what with it being an hour to midnight, and in the driving wind and rain, by the time she hikes through meadows, and hurdles over sty’s in the fence. By the time she reaches Chatsworth, she was in no fit state to be seen by _not man, nor beast._

She plods through the door. Her skirts were wet enough to wring out. Her coat was a sodden layer of wool stuck like a heavy shroud over her frame. Her knees are wet. Her hair was soaked, her toes were squelching in her boots, and to top it all off, her soggy satchel had decided to let the handle snap halfway home, so she now had to cradle it under her arm. Her hat had been whisked clean off her head by the wind, away into the night, lost for good before she could stop it, leaving her head exposed to the ice cold elements. The cherry on top was when she caught her heel in a rut, and was sent tumbling into a sprawl, into a muddy puddle.

She trudged, dripping mud and rainwater, through the foyer, able to hear the din of a dinner party going on in the formal dining room when she passed it.

She closed her eyes and cursed in her head.

 _‘That’s right. We were expecting Elizabeth’s family from up north, today. What a day to be late, and …muddy…’_ She exclaims to herself in a chiding manner. She growls internally, telling herself off as she makes for the stairs.

The din growing louder behind her, made her stop and turn in her place on the stairs. Before it grew quiet again, over the laughter, the clink of glasses, and the scrape and chime of cutlery hitting porcelain, Edith hears dainty heels clack on the tiles floor, and the din grows quiet once again.

“ _Oh_ , thank goodness, _Edith..”_ Came her Aunt’s glad exclaim from the Dining room doorway, the door swinging shut behind her.

Edith managed a fleeting smile, wiping her arm on her grubby sleeve. Walking into the warm house made her realise how tired she was, and how cold her soggy clothes were making her. She felt soiled. Her hair dripping wet, down onto her collar, and her mud specked face.

 _“I’m sorry,_ Aunt Elizabeth. We ran very late, there _was a.. incident_ at the library. We stayed to organise what we could, _but when_ I saw the _time..”_ She spoke in quiet shame, awaiting the forthcoming lecture and scolding that was to follow.

She looked up to see her aunt’s face was not one of shame, and anger. But it was one of empathy and concern.

“ _Heaven’s, Edith_. I know I’m _your Aunt_ , but I’m not about to morph into being a strict, _frightful old bag,_ who’ll shout as you, soon as look at you, for having to stay late and deal with _an incident_. I trust no one came to _any harm?”_ She enquired.

Edith chuckled at _how astoundingly nice_ she always was.

“Let me just _say this_ , I’ve never been _more grateful_ my bookshelves _don’t_ hold the propensity to topple over into each other…” She sighed with glum tiredness weighing down her lids. Her eyes suddenly felt like lead weights. And she didn’t like to think about the potency of the dark, grey bags under her eyes, giving away her exhaustion.

Elizabeth _winced._ Fully empathising.

“ _Quite a day_ you’ve had, my dear. _You poor thing_. You must be _dead on your feet?”_ The Duchess asked her niece, walking closer and wiping a speck of mud off her cheek.

“You’re _too nice._ Thomas or Mama, would have _slaughtered_ me for staying out so long without sending _word ahead.”_ She adds.

Her Aunt blinks away the thought. Soothing her.

“Never you mind. I won’t pretend I wasn’t _frantic_ with panic. And a search party _was_ sent to scour the grounds and the village. But when that turned up empty, I _knew_ you’d still be at the library.” She smiles. Tucking a stray coil of hair behind Edith’s ear.

“ _And… please_ , forgive me, Aunt, I _completely forgot_ about your family from up north joining us tonight. The _last thing_ I wanted to do was _appear rude to them.”_

“It’s _no worry_. Don’t _fret_ yourself, dearest. Now, you go, plunge yourself into a steaming hot bath. I’ll send Elsie up with a large tray of supper to warm you. Ethel made choux buns today, filled to burst with cream and smothered in Belgian chocolate. Best cure after a difficult day, _I find_. Then, Ed, you are to get into bed, _and stay there_. _Do y_ _ou hear me?”_ Elizabeth orders.

“But, I _have_ got a couple of books I want to-“ She began.

“That _wasn’t_ a suggestion. _My dear."_ She elucidated sternly. 

 _"_ You are _drenched_ to the _bone_ , and covered in what looks like _half a field._ And judging by the fact you can barely hold yourself _upright,_ I would say that books have _held quite enough_ of your attention today. Go and rest, and leave your beloved books til tomorrow. _Your health comes first.”_ Elizabeth warned in a voice that could become dangerous.

Edith made a face, but she couldn’t deny her aunt was right.

“Give my _apologies_ to our guests…” Edith offers timidly.

Elizabeth leans over and kisses the girls wet, cold forehead. Pulling back and smiling up at her.

“Go _do_ as I say.” She commands.

Edith smiles, swinging her body away, up stairs, and into that heavenly sounding bath. The Duchess watched her go. After she disappeared, she made her way back into the raucous din of the dining room, where everyone was getting merrier, and louder by the minute. She sidled back to her seat, and retook it, folding the napkin back over herself, and re-entering the conversation, seeing that her uncle, and her husband were getting on like a house on fire.

“Everything alright? _Mo Chroí?”_ Thora asks her niece.

“ _All’s well._ That was Thomas’s niece, Edith. Returning from town. She had to stay on late. Work, kept her busy.” She explained.

“Poor thing must’ha been weary to the bone. It’s near _eleven_ …” Thora smiled politely.

“Yes, she did look a little tired. I’ve sent her to a bed, and a hot bath. You’ll meet her in the morning, refreshed and _good as new_ after a decent night. You’ll adore her, Thora, she’s very studious, and sharp as a pin.” She smiled.

“Oh, bless me, I forgot, _A Grá._ I sent William into that famous library you told me about earlier. Span some yarn about forgetting my John Donne, and made him fetch me a copy.”

Elizabeth grinned.

 _“And?”_ She asked.

“ _Ach,_ The lad came bounding out _looking verra_ happy. I think you _were right_ , you know…” Thora winked to her niece.

Elizabeth took a sip from her water glass, looking happy, cunning, and feeling very sly about being the unknown matchmaker trying her hand.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

Unable to keep up with the copious amount of drinking that was going on with her relatives downstairs, her, Thora and Agnes were the first to retire to bed before the late night turned into an early morning. Thomas had stayed up to take a drink, or two with Angus and the Boys who were allowed to imbibe in the habit.

Elizabeth had just drifted off, snug in bed, with the fire roaring and all the candles all put out. She was enjoying the peace and tranquility, though, _she didn’t much say she cared going to bed alone,_ without Thomas. But, judging from the sounds of laughter and celebration coming from downstairs, she slept with a smile on her face knowing they were getting along just fine.

Her sleep was rudely disturbed, however, quite some time later, by someone noisily stumbling their way along the corridoor to their bedchamber. She was roused to the sound of the doorknob rattling, and shifting as the person on the other side seemed to be having great difficulty in getting the doorhandle to twist open in their fumbling grip. When it does open, it flies back, almost hitting the dresser behind it with a loud _‘thwack’_ that would certainly wake the slumbering inhabitant, but luckily, the person now entering had managed to gather enough of his meagre faculties to stop it before such a noise occurred.

They floundered for a second, on wobbling, uncertain knees, before slowly easing the door shut pressing their hands to the wood, and slowly walking it shut, wincing at the volume the latch made clicking shut in the lock.

The Duke turns, pressing his back to the door, looking across the half dark, half amber lit room to see his wife laid, sound asleep under the covers, turned away from him. He sighs gladly, seeing he hadn’t woken her up.

He proceeded forwards, only to find with a great deal of confusion, as to him taking two steps in a straight line, ended him up veering wildly off to the left, crashing and stumbling into the armchair near the mirror. He whispered a curse as he violently hit his shin on the hard, gilded leg of the chair.

He stumbled round, hissing a wild expletive, as he winced, and collapsed into the cradle the chair offered, rubbing his injured shin. Waiting for the room to stop spinning before he tried to stand again. He took a deep breath. Shut his eyes for a long second, before opening them again, and rising gently and carefully to his feet, he found his footing once more, and surged forwards.

The room was still blurring and dragging in his vision. He steadied himself, pressing a hand out to reach the bottom corner post of the four poster bed. He looked down his chest, his hands slipping and shuffling, poorly mishandling trying to undo his stubborn cravat. He hissed yet another cursive under his breath, swearing the cursed thing for the fact his valet had such strong fingers and an excellent knowledge how well to tie neckwear. He grit his teeth. Eventually able to get it free, but the damned thing slithered from his grip, and snaked onto the floor, he bent to retrieve it, gently lowering himself to sit on his side of the bed, only to find his forehead sharply connects with the lip of his bedside table. Stars and bursts of pain radiate through his temple and he leers up, one hand to his head as he lets out a loud susurration. The loudest one yet. Unfortunately, the pain in his head, meant that he flopped onto the bed, jolting the mattress, almost landing on his slumbering wife – who was sleeping no longer.

“I’ve seen a horse make _lesser impact_ on lying down…” She groaned sleepily.

Thomas turned and winced at her.

“Go’back to sleep. I didn’t want’to wake you..”

He hissed back not at all quietly to her over his shoulder. She shut her eyes again, but it appears for naught, as the bed shifted and rocked as he leaned back some more to try and attempt pulling off his boots. Again, there came another curse, as he tugged too hard, and the thing went flying off his foot from his slack grip, thudding off the wallpaper as he tried in vain to shush it.

When he stood to retrieve it, Elizabeth peeled open her eyes to watch him flail to the floor in a tangle of disorganised, lanky limbs. Crumpling to the carpets below. With a soft _‘Eeeof’ a_ s he went down.

She would have rolled her eyes, were they not closed. As it is. She just smiles as his idiocy.

“Are you drunk, Thomas?” She asks.

“No. F _’course not_. How dare’you.I am a gennnleman. Gennleman _don’tget drunk…_ ” He answered. “They get _foxxed._ I _am foxxed._ Thankyoumilady.” He elides.

She grinned at his befuddled speech.

“How _many drinks_ did you imbibe in the end?” She asks, wishing to guage as to the level of his intoxication.

“… _Lost count_.”

Comes a weak, dulcet little voice from the floor, after a second or two of pausing.

“You _runcle_ …” He began, not spacing his words.

“…Has the iron stomachof an _ox._ Whereas I, have been reliabu _bu_ bly informed…” He slurred.

“That I, Thonas Kewn-worthy, have the consitution of a grain weavel.” He explains. Lisping slightly on his ‘s’

Elizabeth tries not to smile in mirth. Truly she does. But she fails.

“Would you like to get up off the floor, my love?” She asks across the bed.

There was a pause before came his answer.

“Depends..” He squeaked.

“ _On?_ ” Elizabeth asked.

“Will I getshouted at if I come up’there?” He enquires.

She shakes her head.

“Get into bed, you _drunken grain weavel_.” She teases.

“N _ofu_ nny.” He grumps.

“Are you going to sleep on the carpet all night then? Curl up on the rug like Marlowe does?”

She asks. The aforesaid dog in question was currently sleeping in a box in the kitchens. For he had nibbled on an aubusson rug the other day, and was subsequently, befittingly, in the doghouse for it.

“It’s a nice carpet. Ss’comfy..” He insists.

“Get. Into. Bed. Thomas” Elizabeth laughs. _“Lord save me from men and the influence of drams of Scottish whisky…”_ She chuckles to herself under her breath.

Again, there is a slight pause, before he does as she asks of him. His hand flies up and grabs the bedcovers. He had managed to divest himself of his cravat, and had much better luck with the second boot coming off the end of his leg. He straightens his body, gets onto his knees, and lollops in an ungraceful heap, atop the eiderdown next to her.

Her hooded eyes crack open once again, and watches the man next to her close his eyes, his head on the pillow opposite. Breathing in and out as he then proceeded to stare at the canopy above them. Swallowing and exhaling in equal measure.

“What is it?” She asks, dreading his answer.

“Has the bed always been _this_ _blurry?”_ He asks.

“It’s not blurry, _Mi’lord._ However, having several of whatever whisky Angus suggested to you willingly, is more likely the culprit here..” She promises him.

He turns his head towards her, and the potency of the drink on his breath makes her wheeze.

“A goonight _kiss is out_ of the question’then?” He purrs, as he shuffles round. Leaning close.

Elizabeth opens her eyes long enough to pierce a look at him.

“ _Definitely_..” She answers with finality.

There was another moments silence. Elizabeth thought he had drifted off, but this was laid aside as he spoke up once more. Shattering the silence.

“Elizzabeth?” He asks in a quiet, interrelating tone. There seemed to be no pause between his words when he was in this state.

 _“Yes,_ Thomas?” She asks with an impatient, but kind voice.

“Are you still’wake?” He asks.

_Some men shout foully. Some gamble. She was lucky that all drink did was turn her husband into a stuttering, stumbling imbecile._

“Indeed _I am…”_ She tells him.

_Not surprisingly._

“Ihope’your family _likessmee_. I don’wish to have a sword put to my’throat…” He told, letting out a small, soused hiccup not long afterwards.

“You held your nerve in taking a drink with my uncle. And offered them vintage Glenfiddich. That’s tantamount _to sainthood_ in their eyes, My love. I’m sure _they love_ you already.” She promises. Before shuffling on her side, putting her back to him once again.

“You’think _so?”_ He asked her, his hand landing with a heavy slouch between her shoulderblades, in a way that made her jolt awake at the force of him drunkenly rolling into her. That was before he nuzzled closer, his mind turning now towards other things.

“Yo _u’s_ mell _good_.”

He purred, shuffling closer to snuffle into her hair, his hot whiskey breath hitting the back of her neck. His arms slithered round her to engulf her in a body encompassing hug. Squeezing her close, his hand drifting down to find her bottom atop the covers, gently caressing her.

Though she knew the man was drunk out of his silly skull, she couldn’t deny that his lips on her neck _always_ thrilled her.

“Go to sleep, _you rascal_.” She urges.

But, it was too late to stop him, his hand swept her hair out of the way, and his hard, hot body was pressed, taut against her curving back. His hand left her hair, and slithered under the covers, stroking along her hip, down her thigh, before gliding up, and finding the hot, drenched, slippery wetness of her sex, unclothed under her nightie. His fingers teased her open, coaxing a moan from her lips.

“You _can’t even take_ off your boots without causing _yourself injury…”_ She smiles, gasping.

She asks, opening her hooded eyes to find him close, _hypnotically close_ , before he wrenches the covers off her and cages her body with his own, trapping her to the bed as he pressed a hot, whisky flavoured kiss to her lips, fighting to tug her skirts out the way. His fingers slipped deeper, circling her aroused lips, pulling more moans from her.

“ _How in hell do_ you suppose you’ll make love to me in _the state your in?”_ She can’t help but ask

He wrenches of his waistcoat, so that the buttons fly off, onto the bed and the floor as he throws it away out of sight. Hiking off his shirt too with a growl before he crawled like a feral, starving beast up her body to claim her lips for his own again. His answer sent thrills to shoot through her entire being… fluttering through her sex, making her clench and shiver in delightful anticipation...

 _“Loudly.”_ Game his growl into their kiss.

 

 

_~_

 

 

 

William couldn’t sleep.

No matter what he tried. Adjusting his pillow, the covers thrown off him. Counting sheep. Nothing works. He get up, out of bed, and looks at the moonlit, misty gardens below his room. His brain was just too active. Ticking over and over with thoughts. Mainly, thoughts of that enchanting Librarian he’d met earlier today.

 _She was a bewitching lassie if ever he’d met one_.

He only hoped he could spare the time tomorrow to go back and see her again. He was praying _madly_ that she’d be there for him to find.

He smiled. Before he decided that, as nothing would bring his wandering mind, some rest, that maybe, a moonlight stroll of the versaille sized house would be a prudent adventure to settle his straining mind.

He lights the candelabra that was on his bedside, and after tugging on a loose white shirt, and proper thick, black breeches, he slips silently out of the room, barefoot, out into the blue and silver lit hallway that the moons light presided over in a lordly manner. Framed by the light, he moves along the floor, careful to try and avoid any whining floorboards that would give him away. He crept along, barely making a rustle as he moved.

His cousin has certainly found the prime man to marry. Thomas Kenworthy was the _very meaning_ of the word Gentleman. He was gallant, typically English – _but that wasn’t too surprising_ – he loved Elizabeth more fiercely than anything any man could love. And the child to come he spoke warmly of. He was an elated man, who was besotted with his wife, and she with him. He was happy for his Lizzie, _truly he was_. But the sad reality was that it made him ache to think he _may never be_ as happy in his own situation. Theirs was a true, soul-shaking love, _and no mistaking it._

He sighed at that thought.

His father and his mother had gotten to the point of trying to take over, and force him slyly into set up, in attempts to push him into an arranged marriage. But each girl had been more disastrous than the last. Too bland, too poorly read for his liking. Another wanting heiress seeking after the money and position of rank he could offer them as a husband. Seeing Alderth as their right by marriage. Not the place it truly was, his home. Home to his clan. His most beloved possession in the world. He wasn't so lightly passing that over just to have a slip of a stupid, titled, air headed, girl on his arm.

Frankly, he was fed up of their shoving him towards every eligible girl they could seize their hands on.

He rounded a corner, walking along a dead silent gallery, high up in the house. Studying the massive oil baroque portraits that lined the wall next to him. The man all dressed in silks, and with puppyish red cheeks. The women fligged out in ridiculous large dresses, powedered wigs twice the size and weight of them, and with faces painted a comical white with heart shaped lips, and rirculous big black beauty spots on their faces like boils.

 _She had heart shaped lips, that librarian…_ His mind spits out.

Bringing back the image of her, with her adorable ravens hair all mussed and tangling in her eyesight, her pale cheeks red behind her glasses. His body _yearned_ a little on thinking back to her. It was that hungry, fuzzy ache of burgeoning attraction. The one that niggled at the pit of his belly, setting fire to his innards.

He exhaled a breath, turning around and trying to shake the image of her from his mind. He didn’t trust his form not to grow restless at such _an inviting_ thought.

He pad along to the next hallway, seeing that there was an open room before him. He could see row upon row of shelves. It was a library, _a bookroom_. Just the thing he needed. He usually lost himself in a books pages when he couldn’t sleep for all the world. He pushes back throughts of the librarian once more, and strides inside. This entire, well indexed space was larger than the _entire foyer_ at Alderth. It went on for days, the silver light flecked on every spine as he raised the candleight to see the titles as he walked alongside the shelf. A testement to this library owners variety of readership, he didn’t _even recognise_ half the titles he came across in his searching.

He comes to the end, of a shelf, seeing a little golden frame of a label, upon which a handwritten scrawl promised him he was now in the Fiction section. He turned to look at the shelf before him, standing the candle down opposite him, letting the light move away from him, as he focused on the titles before him. His back to the door as he selected an Oscar Wilde story that he hadn’t perused in a while. _All the better for it was one of his favourites…_

He thought he heard a floorboard creak slowly behind him, but he paid it no mind. This house was centuries old. It was bound to make noises deep down in the buckled wood floorboards, or the whine of the old window frames. He flipped the book open, and his fingers thumbed the thick, musty pages. Feeling the papery cotton of the texture soften beneath his fingers. He turned around, intending to creep back to his room, and enjoy reading it there, but as he turned, in front of him a flash of white intersected his vision, and there then came a soft grunt which he didn’t realise came from him as pain burst through his head, and he found the floor falling up to meet him as he dropped like a deadweight. The sharp, knifes edge of pain stabbing into his head not long afterwards.

He manages to do naught but curse, and blink, dropping the book, and the candlestick in his hand, which both clattered to the floor along with him. When his vision seperates into twin discs once more, he realises he was on his side, sprawled on the floor, looking at a pair of dainty, girly feet and the bottom laced hem of a white nightie drift in his eyeline.

“ _Mhac Na Galla…”_

He grits out, rubbing his head with his left hand, feeling the white hot pain, and when he pulled away his hand, there was a dab of blood on his palm. He looks up to see the face of his feminine attacker…

_Her._

_It was her._

_The Librarian._

He blinks a frown up at her.

 _“You?”_ He asks.

_“You?!"_

Edith sighs back as the unamed assailant turned his head upwards, into the path of the moonlight, she hadn’t been able to see his face through his mane of shaggy, dark hair. _Only now_ she saw it was red, and untamed. _It was fire_ , and his eyes were as blue as the night that now surrounded them.

_It was him._

_The Scot from the Library._

_The one she’d thought of, and nothing else, all day. Here… of all places, here, in her bookroom._

She wanted _to pinch herself_ to check she wasn’t dreaming…

“What _the hell are_ you doing _here?”_

She burst out before she could stop herself. His vision calmed down enough from the dizzying high of being clobbered over the head, to see she held a heavy, silver, ornate candlestick in her hand. This was obviously what had been thumped down on his head with surprising strength belying her slight size. And she was almost twice as small as him, too. She weilded that candlestick like a viking held their axe, judging by the wound he now had gashed into his forehead.

“You _expect me_ to explain _why I’m here lass_ , when You’ve just beat me about the head with a candlestick?”

He asked her incredulously, slowly finding his feet, and coming to his knees, slowly getting to his feet once more, stooping as his head swam with the pain fogging his vision and his thoughts. She heard his accent get thicker, his words blending into a Scottish growl when he got angry. _It was sinful how alluring he sounded like that, she remarked quickly to herself…_

“What do you do? _Work wherever_ _theres books_ to _be had?”_ He asks.

“ _I live here_..” She ground out in offense.

_“What are you doing here?”_

She asked again. Sheepishly putting the stick down, seeing he posed no further threat. Though she suddenly became aware she was clad in just a night dress, alone, in a room with a boy.

“Staying with _my Cousin_ on holiday, if that’s alright _with ye’._ _Christ,_ ye’ve got a _blow_ like a horses kick _lassie…”_

He mumbled, leaning against a book case for support, Edith felt guilty now, seeing a trickle of blood that she had caused to run down the side of his face. It had dripped now onto his white shirted shoulder.

“ _B-But,_ Elizabeth said you were from _up North?_ I thought she meant, _you know_ \- Northumberland, or _something._ Not…”

“ _Scotland?”_ He finished for her with a smirk that clipped her knees.

“This _isn’t funny_.” She snapped, unamused.

“Ye’re no’ the one with the _bleeding_ face, and head injury, _Lass. I give ye’ leave to laugh..”_ He sarrced.

“I must’na make the mistake of thinkin’ Librarians _so weak_ in future…” He groans in an afterthought.

Edith, tilted her head. A brow raising.

“Glad I _could improve_ upon our reputation…” She adds snidely. Folding her arms across herself, watching him as those cats eyes flickered across to her.

“...And here, I thought _all sassenach_ lassies to be _so prim, and proper.”_

“One thing I _am_ , is _not_ alike everyone _else_..” She said with an edge of pain to her voice.

“I’d gathered _that one_ for me’self.”

“Can you stop chiding me now?.... There was a _strange_ boy, whom I _didn’t_ know, in my house, _in my bookroom_ , in the middle of the night. _What else_ was I supposed to do?”

“Introduce yerself?” He suggested.

As ideas went, it wasn’t _a terrible_ one. _And she had just injured him,_ her brain pointed out _. Judas… she snapped internally for its treachery._

“Edith. Edith Thatcher Kenworthy Everett.” She told him.

He peered across at her. Grinning wide like a sly fox.

“What a _mouthful._ ” He teases.

“Don’t think I _wouldn’t swing_ for you again.” She seethes with her pretty blue eyes narrowing.

“Then I’d best tell ye’ my name now, before another blow causes me to _forget all I know_ …” He jokes.

She glares a little harder.

“William Mac Aoidh Finley McKurick. Pleasure to meet you at last, _Miss Edith_. Now. May I excuse myself before bleed to death…” He jokes with her

“By all means…” She speaks, stepping aside, before she stoops and scoops up the book she made him drop.

“Will you still be wanting this? I didn’t mean to put you off. It’s really very good..” He promises.

“I know. I’ve read it before…” He tells her.

She looked down at it. Guilt drowning her suddenly

“I didn’t mean to hit so hard. I was just.. startled…” She explains.

She watches him smile, gentle shutting his eyes as he smirked.

“Well. I am sorry I gave ye’ a fright. I’ll warn anyone to think twice about stealin yer’ books from ye.’ I’d hate to see what intentional damage you’d inflict…” He mocked her.

She shuffled sheepiahly, so much so, he almost felt bad for making her guilty.

“We McKuricks have _strong heads_ , Miss. Skulls _like rams_. It didn’a hurt _that badly_ …” He eased her worries.

 _“Sorry_ I made you bleed.” She winced, biting her lip.

“Think _nothin’_ o’it lass.” He promises, rounding the doorframe down the other end of the library. His grin was far too cheeky, and she frowned as to why.

“In fact, consider _me sorry_ too…” He told.

“Why are you being _so nice_ to me all of a sudden?” She asks, her eyes thinning once again. It was suspicious.

His answer made her blush, gasp and irritated all at once. And then he swept away, round the doorframe, off out of sight, back to bed, and all she could say was that she hoped _he bled_ to death as he slept. _Despite how mystifyingly handsome he was…_

“Because _, Lass…”_ He had grinned. “I’m the one who caught a _wee peek_ up _yer’ nightdress_.”

 

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though Iris hasn't told her yet, Edith will come out into society this year. And whilst there will always be a place for her at the Vicarage with her and Hugh, she has a mind to suggest that her eldest continue living with Thomas and Elizabeth, as her Aunt can coach her in society etiquette, as she did turn seventeen only two weeks ago... She knows Edith won't mind the plot at all. Not if it involves her staying near her library...


	112. Scottish Hearts, Hangovers, and Diva Dukes...

 

 

 

Elizabeth was sat in the breakfast room, merrily drinking tea, and buttering a slice of toast. When the slow shuffle of boots let her know she was alone no longer. The door opened, sluggishly, and the person behind it was more than _, a little_ , _worse for wear_. Usually, her husband strode tall, head held high into any room he entered, with sparkling eyes, and a face ready to take on the world. This morning, Thomas _barely looked able_ to take on pouring a _cup of tea_.

To say that her husband was of a precious disposition this morning, would have been a vast, grossly under-exaggerated _lie._ Elizabeth looked across the room at him with a kind empathy, and only a little touch of humour in her eyes.

He had gaunt, big grey bags like hammocks under his eyes, and his pale face looked _far paler_ than was normal. His skin looking a little on the _green_ side. _In the most indelicate sense._ His tall frame stooped a little, and he held his body as if his head weighed _several tonnes_. She could see this also had an effect on his patience, as his hair was not it’s typical neatly combed self, it was instead a ruffled, inky mess. His cravat was twisted, and wonky, as was the oddly buttoned waistcoat that sat wrinkled on his strong torso. He stumbled slowly into the room, looking like death dragged up.

“I _feel, far, worse_ than I look, if that is _any_ sort of consolation.”

Came his rasp of a groan. Through a voice that was strained by sleep and the pain he was visibly suffering from in his _delicate_ head this morning.

 _“Lord,_ is that even possible?” Elizabeth asked kindly.

 _He could’ve thrown her on the table and made love to her, right there and then. Sweep away the breakfast service with an arc of his arm, and throw her down and claim her._ The dear, sweet angel she was, was speaking softly and reverently. Knowing that any sound louder than that, would cause a pain like knives stabbing into his temple, over and over.

He didn’t have a care to shut the door behind him, he stumbled gently into the room, and managed to get his aching, crippled body and his fragile head navigated towards a chair next to his dear wife. Elizabeth took pity on him, and stood to shuffle the chair out for her suffering beau. He placed both hands flat on the table, and groaned in pain as he lowered himself onto the chair, bracing his back into the cradle it offered, slowly coming to ease with his new position. He reached over for her delicate hand, brought it close and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

 _“Bless_ you, _you darling_ woman..” His voice grated out.

“Drink?” She asked.

He shuddered, and a shudder of sickness rolled through him.

“ _Don’t mention that awful word…”_ He grumbled in a grumpy decree, fighting back to urge to retch his guts up.

“Offering you something _to eat_ is obviously _out_ of the question then?” She asks.

The Duke didn’t answer, as he was too busy slouching backwards, and resting his head, with his eyes closed, back on the top of the chair behind him. Elizabeth was looking down on him with empathy and mirthful concern, When Wilkins swept through the door that came up from the kitchens into the breakfast room, the door behind him swinging shut on its hinges with a loud smack. She saw Thomas jolt at the noise.

“ _Whoever_ that is, _they’re dismissed_ …” Thomas growled, eyes still shut as he stared at the ceiling. His brow pulled down as he frowned in his pain.

“ _Now, now_. Don’t be _spiky_. It’s only Wilkins…”

Elizabeth smiled as the butler went about setting down another tray of tea, and adding more dishes to the side table. She patted her husband’s shoulder before she made an apology to their head of house.

“I do apologise for his Lordship’s behaviour this morning Wilkin’s. But the Duke is feeling… a little, _delicate_.” Elizabeth told the Butler.

Wilkins frowned with intent apprehension for his employer. Who looked gaunt, clammy and an ill shade of his traditional, strong self.

“Is his _Lordship unwell_ , My Lady?” He asked.

_“Very.”_

Elizabeth told. Miming tipping a glass back to her lips as she did. “He’s suffering from an affliction known as: Having a wife with _Scottish_ relatives…” She smiled. 

“Ah.” Wilkins smiled, relieved it was not a grave illness. But a fleeting one.

“ _I didn’t care_ for the _tone_ of that exclamation Wilkins…” Thomas groused.

“Would you care for your usual cup of coffee this morning, _Your Grace?”_ The Butler asked politely.

Thomas fought not _to retch_ once again.

“Shall I translate?” Elizabeth asks her indisposed man.

Thomas grumbled a groan at her.

“Something… _steadying_ … Perhaps? Nothing a cup of tea can’t cure..”

Elizabeth assures, she leaves her husbands side and goes to pour him some tea. Strong, as he preferred it. Anything liquid to dilute the strength of whiskey that he’d drunk last night. If she knew Uncle Angus, he’d stick to the strongest whiskey possible, and nothing less than the _finest, most potent_ in all of Scotland would do.

“The breakfast is all laid out for the guests Mi’Lady. _Please ring if_ anything needs replenishing…” Wilkins offered before he slid from the room.

“Thankyou Wilkins. _You’re a dear_. And, please pay his Lordships _grousing_ no mind. Rest assured, whilst one of us isn’t _being precious_ , your position is entirely safe as long as I _say so._ ” She winks.

“Bless you, Your Grace. I must say, this _is first_ for us. His Lordship was never the type to have _drunken routs_ …” The Butler offered.

“ _Routs?_ How am I routing? This _is not_ a rout!” Thomas insisted. "This is a non-rout. This is a form of unfair _torture_."

“Hush you. Let Wilkins speak” Elizabeth admonished.

“…Should I take the liberty and ask around the kitchens? I’m sure _someone_ will have a sensible cure for such a…. _predicament.._ ” He speaks in politesse.

“That’s very considerate. Yes, please do.” The Duchess leers.

“You sound _too happy? Why_ are you so _happy?_... _and loud?”_ Thomas grumbles to his Wife…

“Never you mind. Just you continue on in your state as the  _casualty_ veteran of a whiskey bottle..” She says, placing a saucer of tea down near him.

“ _Rude_.” Thomas barks at her. Frowning all the more.

Wilkins bowed obediently. This time, he managed to catch the door before It shut and caused Thomas’s head more pain than was necessary. Elizabeth smiled over at the man. Before squeezing Thomas’s hand in comfort, and returning to her seat.

“If this is the state of you, I wonder if my uncle will make _it downstairs…”_ Elizabeth wondered.

“…Then again, he doesn’t have _your_ constitution. _He is Scottish_ …” Elizabeth spoke in explanation to herself.

Thomas opened his eyes, and ignoring the pain that seemed to be trying to gouge out his eyes, and spearing agonies of his head, he looks over to his wife. Who looked as pretty as a bush full of butterflies, where he felt like a pig bathing in it’s sty. And a little insulted at having his pride pricked…

“What do you mean, _my constitution?”_ He bristled.

“Thomas. You’ve gone all your _thirty years_ of life without ever even being on the _wrong side_ of one too many glasses of _champagne._ Having almost half a bottle of whiskey was bound to hit you like a tonne of bricks. And, I know my family, Thomas. they’re _tough as tough_ can be. My uncle once drank close to _four_ bottle’s of wine, at dinner, then drank _two bottles_ of whiskey afterwards. And the next morning he was off on a stag hunt at dawn _with nary_ so much a compliant.” She told him.

“That’s _inhuman_.” He grumbled, after a short pause.

“No.” Elizabeth remarked. In plain disagreement as she smiled.

“That’s _Scots.”_ She insists.

Wilkins entered the room once again, this time bearing the silver post tray in his hand. The door made a louder noise, but Wilkin’s wincing expression told Elizabeth he had tried to take every pain to cover it. But even so, the slightest noise above a certain decibel seemed like poison to her husbands ailing head. Even a noise _as mild_ as the post tray clipping the door.

“Remind _me why_ we have staff again…” Thomas seethed in a growl.

Elizabeth sighed.

“Will you stop being such a _Princess?_ _Streuth_. I’ve never known a _suffering on earth to be so great and_ ostentatious in volume, as that of _a man_ _feeling sorry_ for himself…” She gritted out.

“Some post _for you,_ Mi’Lord…” Wilkins told.

“I’ll take it, Wilkins. Don’t mind _Adelina Patti, here,_ _leave her_ to her _fussing...”_

Elizabeth smiles prettily, gently accepting the envelope from the tray. Wilkin’s disappeared back through the door as silently as he dared, walking softly on the soles of his shoes.

“Now you’re being _cruel._ ” Thomas whined.

“You brought it _on yourself_. And _no one_ snaps to my staff…” Elizabeth warns him protectively.

“Especially not at _poor old_ Wilkins, _and especially_ not a man who is the only one responsible for his own, silly, aching head.”

She looked down at the letters in her hands, there were a couple, both addressed from London. With a name she recognised as their Estate Agent based on Howland Street.

“Why is _Mr McGuire_ writing to us? Is there a _problem_ with the Palace Street, house renovations?” She asks him with keen interest.

“Just a little…” Thomas tells her.

"The leak in both the attic, and the parlours prove to be very expensive to fix, and trying to find the source of it is proving to be _equally_ as so. The kitchen and cellars apparently are riddled with mould, and the staircase is rotting away.” He informed.

“Goodness…” Elizabeth winces. “How long before they make it _inhabitable?”_ She asks.

“For far longer than I care to _fund_ it.” He finalises.

She tilted her head at him, and his eyes sparkled at her over the rim of his teacup as he attempted a sip of tea.

“What are you implying?” Elizabeth asks.

“Kenworthy Manor on Palace Street, has been in my family _for far longer_ than I care to admit. Matter of fact, I think it has been haunting my relatives since the _dark ages._ It certainly _looks like it,_ and I’m not complaining about the cost of it, except. Times change, people change. _Heck,_ you and me have _grown so much_ since the day we both _said ‘I do.’_ And, I do like the Palace Street house, my memories of it are fond, memories I’ve had since _I was a boy_. _But_ , I think it is high time for a _change_. I’ve always thought Palace street _too small_ , it only has four rooms, which is pointless. I wrote to McGuire, and he proposed to me a, very elegant, leak free, un-mould ridden, un-rotting staircased townhouse, in Fitzroy Square. _Which_ , I am considering buying…” He lets out.

Elizabeth blinks, taking in the unexpected news.

 _“Fitzroy_ Square?” She repeats. “I am _all_ astonishment…”She exclaims. 

Fitzroy square was rumoured to be reserved for London's elite. For Lords, and High Government officials. People of position and power. It takes her a few seconds to remember that  _she was_ a Duchess. And they were pretty thin on the ground...

“The house is called, Wildrage Place. It has twelve bedrooms. Attic rooms, Large cellar kitchens, and a servants lounge. Eight parlours. A breakfast room, Lunch room, dining room. A large garden with a pond, and a kitchen garden… It’s _exactly_ the kind of place a Duke and Duchess should have for their London home, when they come to _do_ the season. And I must admit, _its perfect_. And _it’s exactly_ the kind of place I’d always imagined we’d be run ragged around by _our many hellion_ , carroty haired, children to come, in the future…” He tells.

Elizabeth looked lovingly at him. Heartened by his wanting to always do good for them, for their future.

“I feel bad for calling you _a diva_ now…” She says in a low quiet voice, her tone telling him how much she loved him.

“Well. Peel me grapes, and recline me on a chaise, My Lady. If I’m _acting_ a Diva, I’m _damn well_ going to be ensured _I’m spoilt_ like one…” He preened with a smile.

“ _Well then._ Pass me a bowl of grapes…” Elizabeth smiles in acceptance.

Thomas chuckles.

“I don’t know if it will be on a chaise, draped in my feather boa and preening over my pedestal of roses. But I think _I will_ take my Diva self, and go and be _horizontal_ elsewhere for a while..” He articulates.

She laughs at him.

“You make _me so very, dreamily_ happy.” She enlightens him as she comes behind him, and helps him groaning, as he gets to his feet.

“.. And thus with _those heartening_ words. I’m off to go and _be ill_ into the nearest plant pot.” He japes.

 _“Oh_ , you rival Lord Byron in your _orations_ , My dear.” She fake swoons.

That naughty look crept slyly back onto his face, one inky brow crooking up his forehead as he leered at her.

“I certainly rivalled him on plenty of his _other, less pious misdeeds_ , last night _abed…_ ” He winks. Making her cheeks flush.

She sighs as he leans in and wraps an arm about her waist as he kisses her. She returns his affections, draping her arms about his shoulders, and stroking a hand over his wild hair.

A clumping, stomping pair of footsteps clatter into the breakfast room door, and the thunderous boom of a Scottish voice interrupts them both. Elizabeth and Thomas turn to see Thora and Angus stood, awaiting to join them. They looked an _odd pair_ , together. But they were _opposites,_ and they would so tend to attract for time. Where Thora was small, elegant, and by no means short, her husband’s stature _would dwarf_ any frame. He was built like a bear, his features were ruddy and stout, where her Aunt was tapered, pointed, and sharp. But not in an ugly sense. She was elegant, where he was hefty.

“ _Ach_. A Grá, it’s good to see your marriage is still enjoying it’s _early enchantments.”_

Uncle Angus boomed in hearty laughter. Elizabeth saw Thomas wince, _only a little_ , at the volume of her Uncle’s voice. If Wilkin’s scraping the door was a pain, then the pitch of Angus’s timbre must have been the equivalent of having his head on the chopping block.

“Have _ye no_ sense of respectability or restraint, Angus McKurick?” Thora asked.

“I don’t have much of it myself.” Thomas assures them. “If you’ll forgive me, I have a headache that is approximately that as the same size as _Belgium_. So I have a mind to go and lie down and feed it a small herbal tea, and place a cold compress on my temple as reprimand…” He explained.

 _“Ye look_ like ye’re suffering at the _sour end_ of a whiskey bottle this mornin’ Kenworthy, _ma lad.”_ Angus laughs in his typical roaring chortle, clapping the Duke on the back like a strike of thunder as he headed for the door.

“Enjoy breakfast. Ethel’s the finest cook alive. Buttered kippers, Grilled chops, coddled eggs. She’ll spoil you _rotten.”_ Thomas assured his guests. “Do excuse me…” He smiles to his wife, and their visitors, before he shuffles his aching head from the room.

“ _Poor man.”_ Thora cooed in his wake. “You couldn’a have gone easy on him, Angus? He looks like a walking casualty this morning…” Thora chided her husband as they sat themselves down at the table near Elizabeth’s chair.

“Kenworthy drank like a celtic warrior, m’dear. He did you proud Lizzie. He is a fine gent, and verra worthy of you…”

“And it took shoving a bottle of whiskey down the unlucky man’s gullet for ye’ to _confirm it?”_ Thora asked her husband.

“T’is the way of our _ancient_ ancestors, _Thora, ma darling_. To take a drink or two with a new clansmen. And who am I, to knock that _olden_ tradition, _hmm?”_ Angus beamed with a smile. He always smiled. That’s why his eyes were so wrinkled and the lines on his face carved so deep. He was always smiling. _And that was the greatest way to age ones face_ , Elizabeth thought.

“It sounds to be like a _session of idiocy_ , followed on by a line of _idiots.”_ Thora told him in no uncertain terms. Folding her napkin across her lap as she sat. Angus doing the same opposite her.

“You see, Lizzie? I canna argue with such a wife…” He told her with a grin.

“I _should expect_ not.”

“Ever since the day I met her, pretty as a picture, fair skinned, the _beauty o’ Scotland_ , _she was_ …”

“Still am, I beg ye’…” Thora interjected.

“Here, here. I quite agree.” Elizabeth winked back to her aunt.

“D’ye know I’ve yet to hear her say _three little words_ to me, that _every husband_ should rightfully _hear_ …” He informed his niece.

Elizabeth laughed. “Those being?”

“ _I. Was. Wrong.”_ He boomed, smiling not long after.

Thora rolled her eyes.

“I’m married to a _child.”_ Thora groused teasingly at her niece.

“Aren’t we all?” Elizabeth answered.

“Thomas _is lovely,_ Lizzie. _We adore him_. You struck _gold_ finding a man such as him among all those, prim, fussing, empty headed, titled idiots up in London.” Thora told her niece.

“Believe it or not, since the last time you visited London, the empty headed young men seemed to have tripled in number. Aswell as the vain, transparent young ladies who think _that nastiness_ is the keenest fashion.” Elizabeth told her.

Thora didn’t look encouraged by her news.

“That sounds far worse than how it was in my day..” She added.

Elizabeth _heartily_ agreed.

“Truth be told, until Thomas came his merry, amazing way into my life, and stirred me up in love so _powerfully_ , I feared I would have been a shelved spinster, with little hope of any match, by now…” Elizabeth told them both, as she sipped her tea.

“What ever happened to that _awful, odious, man_ your stepmother had a mind to _affix_ you with? Mark, wasn’t it?” She asked curiously. “When we saw you last he was _keen as mustard_ on ye’…” She enquired.

“Marcus Burke...” Elizabeth smiled. _Now there was a set of memories with the name._ She laughed to herself, before she wrinkled her nose in mirth, and beamed into her cup of tea. “We, went our _separate ways is all._ I’ve _no idea_ whats become of him…” She grins merrily into her teacup. Stroking a hand over her bump not long after. _Life was grand, sometimes._

“Are my rowdy, ragtag pack of boy cousins all still abed?” Elizabeth asks.

“Aye, all _but one_ …” Angus tells as he heaped his plate with every item of food on offer. _Even his appetite was monstrous._

“Whose up?” Thora asked.

“Who’d _ye think_ , Lass…”

Angus chuckled, taking a teacup into his hands and draining it in one go. The dainty china looked laughingly out of proportion in his gigantic hands, as he held it, and sipped from it as perfectly as was to be expected. He looked like a giant making delicate use of a dollhouse implement.

“William. Of course…” Thora finished.

“ _He’s never_ become an early riser?” Elizabeth asks. To hear such a thing come from a boy who, all her life, had thought of nine o’clock in the morning, as equivalent to the _crack of dawn,_ was quite a thing of wonder.

“Ye’ know what he’s like… Any chance to go off wandering around the countryside, he’d take it. He’s the same at home. If he had not appetite, nor need for rest. I fear we’d never see him. He always off, out _gallivanting_ in nature….” Thora explained.

“Usually trying to climb a mountain, or, as when we were little, _break his bones_ attempting _a stupid_ adventure no boy should ever attempt.” Elizabeth laughed.

“He’s _no’ one_ for setting still.” Thora adds. “The eight hours in the carriage were _torture_ fer’ him. I could feel him itching to get out before we even passed _Glasgow._ ”

“That _sounds_ like William.” Elizabeth told.

“I fear for what his marriage will be like, _if he ever comes round to one_ ….” Thora wondered.

“… _Which he must_. He is the eldest to Clan McKurick. Time he started _realising_ what that entails…” Angus pressed.

“Still, _ever the dreamer_ , is he?” Elizabeth asks. Because he always had been, and he always would be. She loved that about her eldest cousin. It reminded her a little of her own, free spirit.

“I’ll be in a _wooden box_ , before William gives up on _his dreaming_.” Thora told her niece.

“You can take the boy out o’ Scotland… But _no’ Scotland_ out the boy…” Angus smiled warmly to both his ladies.

“ You know him. Lizzie. He _could never_ dare think of taking on a lassie who didn’t adore _nature_ , and _adventure_ as much as he does. And if she’s no’ Scottish, nor boast of _any_ appreciation for the country. I fear I know which one _he’d rather_ risk _his heart_ fer’” Thora told. “Scotland is in his heart, and I fear there's _no removing_ it _so lightly.”_ She accepted with the tone of a worried, yet proud, mother.

“He _loves_ a challenge, that lad.” Angus laughed, making a dinner knife look paltry in his beefy, colossal hands.

“Wait til he meets Edith..” Elizabeth smiles, winking at Thora.

“If anyone can give our William a challenge, it’ll be her. Or I’ll _eat my hat_ …” She promises…

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William McKurick has been close to engagement, three times, in his twenty years of life. But every one he has wriggled his way out of. The first, was to girl who hated nature. Which he adores, so that was called off. The Second, to a girl from Cumbria who thought that Scotland was an awful place. She didn't last long either. The latest one, was a spoiled Heiress who insisted she loved Scotland. He decided to take her for a traditional Scottish pastime, stalking for stags, and she fell face first into the mud. He made sure she ate haggis and told her that was all they ate, which made her sick. He then took her on a walk round the loch. Which ended with her pushing him in after he told them they were not suited, and broke off the engagement. Thora and Angus are beginning to be fearful there's no eligible lassie left in Scotland who'll have him. Thora always insists; "It's no' yer' looks that keep them away. Mac Aoidh. Think about that."


	113. Even Scores, Head Wounds, and Sunrise Over the Dales...

 

~ Sunrise over the Dales ~

 

~

 

 

 

In truth, Edith was up before dawn. The sky was still dark, and everything was that azure shade of midnight blue, as it was before the sun rose and shone its golden rays on the treetops, and through the rich greenery of the Derbyshire dales. It was one of the most beautiful sights to see, a sunset breaking through the blue night, shining across the valley of the dales. Sparkling off every blade of grass, every leaf, on every tree.

Her mind was too plagued to settle. So, it stood to reason, she’d let _her body_ wander restless, rather than _her mind._ Leaving her hair its unruly plait, half straggled, half organised. Long wavy curls of dark hair hanging down her pale neck. She doesn’t bother with an intricate dress, she pulls on a very old, simple thick, grey cotton dress. With only a line of brown buttons to fasten it at the bodice. She’d had it _years_ , it was shabby and barely presentable. But she didn’t wish to be that this morning. She tugged on her most tattered pelisse. And her unkempt, brown laced, heeled, walking boots.

She scattered quietly through the house, quicker and quieter than a mouse. She leaves word with one of the maids, who was obviously up early before work started, that she was going for a walk before breakfast, just so her Uncle didn’t panic when they didn’t find her abed. She had a small volume of poetry in her pocket, and the intent to _walk, and walk_ , to follow a well known path. Until her mind settled. And thoughts of flames and oceans stopped reminding her of the uncouth, Celtic, house guest she’d recently assaulted. _The quite, somewhat handsome, Celtic, house guest…_

_So far, she had found him to be kind, beguiling to look at, unapologetically scottish, typically male, infuriating and stubborn._

So, off she goes. Her mind focusing on the cold mornings air that nipped at her fingers. She concentrated on the way the icy air filled and chilled her lungs. The wind that swayed her hair, and the way the dew beaded on her shoes as she kicked through the grass. It was so cold, that as she took in breath, she could see it ghost out of her when she exhaled, the air infused with the fragrance of the unspoilt countryside. Greenery, foilage, the moistness of wet morning dew, the tang of wood-smoke from some far off bonfire, along with the mossy, earthiness of wet mud and the oaken bark from the nearby trees.

She walks up past the wild meadows, through the woods, passing under the cold shadows of the tall dark, canopy of trees, which spread wide, up above her. Birdsong chirping around her, before they scattered off into the air at the slightest noise her foot made on the undergrowth. She came out of the woods, and passed through the meadow, with the swing by the stream where she had come so many times to find solace in her solitude, and the pages of a novel. She heads straight through the meadow, cutting across to the next, and heading up the public footpath that led up jagged spine of a tall hill, the top of which, looked down all across the large acreage of the Chatsworth estate. All 150 acres of it. All the tenant farms, working farms and tenant cottages that sat on the countryside to the far east, comfortably nestled in the woods. She comes up the hill, just in time to watch day break across the charming little valley of her happy home.

She feels the wind carving its cold way past her cheeks, tugging her open coat tails behind her, she smiles as she feels the breeze pull and yank the loose strands of her hair back from her face, as she turned it upwards, into the warming rays of the suns first light. It was an incomparable feeling, the sheer beauty of a new day. _It put so many other things into focus…_

She continued up the hill, smiling to herself as she tugged out the book from her pocket, and read it as she walked along, one hand holding it, as the other, she used to absentmindedly toy with a curl of her hair, twiddling it about her finger - as she always did when she thought – reading the page that she had read, time and time over again. So lost was she in her book that when she came to the sty in the fence ahead of her, she didn’t even put it down as she clambered over it, she held it aloft in one hand, as the other hand went to the top of the post, she had just swung her leg over, when a voice speaking up from behind her startled her…

“Ye’ really cannot fathom _ever_ puttin’ a book down? _Can ye’ Sassenach?”_

His voice made her jump. Startling her, which in turn made her hand slip, and she went tumbling down, over the sty, admittedly, but smashing _into it_ on her way down was _not very elegant_.

When she sits up once more, she hears the pounding of his running feet rustling across the grass to get to her, she sits up, with a swimming head, seeing the blurry flame hue of his hair swim and dance in her vision. She blinks, and tries to regain herself from having just mightily embarrassed herself in front of him – _once again._

_“Owowww.”_

She winces as she shuffled her body around. Beside her swimming vision, she see’s him hop over the fence easily, like a red headed hare, and bound to her side, his hair swaying into his amazingly blue eyes.

She feels his hand touch her back as he crouches beside her. Her hand goes to touch where her head took a thumping on the way down, and a sharp, acute pain blares through her head, when she pulls her hand away, she looks and sees blood on her fingertips. Then she looks up at him… Barely even inches away from her side, crouched on one knee in the dirt… _Oh. Today he was in a kilt._

 _No man should ever look as rugged, or as manly, and beautiful, in what was, for all intents and purposes, essentially a skirt..._ She thinks.

The McKurick Tartan that was wrapped around him yesterday, was worn in its more traditional style this morning. Swathing down to his knees, left bare by what his calf reaching boots didn’t cover. On his top half, there was a dark blue velvet jacket, with a white shirt and a golden brown cravat. His hair was still wild, and shaggy. As untamed as the man himself.

“I’m sorry. _Mo Nighean._ That last thing I wanted to do, was to _startle ye’...”_

He apologises, undoing his cravat, and taking one side of her cool, pale face in his large hand, he tilted it towards him, and those blue cats eyes flicker over her face in concern and devotion, turning her in the direction of the sparse light of the sunrise peaking over the cresting hill behind them. He carefully presses the balled up cloth of his cravat to the raw patch on her right temple. She swallowed, looking up to see a small purple bruise to the left of his forehead. Probably a mirror image to the wound she’d have opposite on her own forehead by tomorrow…

“Maybe one of these day’s we’ll be _able to introduce ourselves_ to each other, _wi’out injury_ …” He smiles, laughing.

Edith frowns, opening her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He returns the scowl, worrying the hit to her head had caused more than just a nasty scrape.

 _“Dinna_ tell me ye’ve gone and done ye’self a _proper_ harm. Tell me ye’ remember _yer’ name, atleast?”_ He asks.

“Edith Everett.” She replies wryly. Her tone implying he wasn’t to think of her as an idiot.

He raises an auburn brow across at her, smiling that sidewards grin once again. The one that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle, and her chest go all tight, and her breathing went all erratic and spasmed idiotically in her lungs.

“There’s no need to sound _so offended_. _Sassenach._ I wanted to check ye’re alright…” He chuckles, his fingers on her chin were surprisingly soft, and his hands were warm and soothing on her skin. It was odd, he was a rough, brawny scot, she expected his hands to be roughened skin, and calloused fingertips. _But they were so very soft_ , and his big hands handled her with care that belied his size…

“…But seeings as ye’re _dressing me down_ for caring about ye’, I think that more than likely means that ye’re _fine._ ” He surmises with no hint of worry in his voice.

“I think we’re _even now_.” Edith tells him with a small smile. Looking at the purple bruise, and cut on his forehead.

“I wasna’ aware t’was _a competition_..” He said.

“Well, it it _ever was_ , we’re on a tie.” She chuckled.

“ _Well._ If it’s _alright_ with ye’ I won’t be trying _to up_ ma’ score.”

He tells her. Peeling his cravat away, seeing the wound as it was without it being all bloodied, a gash which measured just under an inch, just above her dark eyebrow. _She had hair the colour of ink… he thinks_. Which made her skin look like the colour of the palest cream. He was suddenly sorry to cause her an injury to marr the beautiful, soft skin of her bonnie face.

“What were you doing up _so early?”_ He asks curiously. “I thought ladies of leisure didna have to get out of bed _before noon…”_ He concludes.

“ _I’m not_ a lady of leisure. And I _couldn’t sleep.”_ She told him.

“What _are ye’_ then?” He asks her.

“I’m a debutante. Which means I must be, perfect, at all times. Trained in every spec of society mannerism. _Never_ allowed alone in the company of an eligible gentleman. Let alone be _within inches_ of one…” She smiles, her cheeks pinkening very obviously.

He chuckles, and caring for etiquette, and her reputation, he allows the cravat to pass into her grip, so he wasn’t touching her tenderly any more.

“ _Sorry Sassenach_. But where I come from. It’s more gentlemanly to worry about the welfare of an injured lass, than flounder and speculate on propriety, when a gently bred lassie is bleeding and in pain, all for worry _of scandal_.” He tells her.

“Sensible.” Edith chuckles.

“I can’t say I _agree_ with the custom, either. I’m not a well-behaved debutante. My aunt has offered to coach me.”

 _“Lizzie?”_ He asks in a laugh.

Edith nodded.

“She’s offering to teach ye’ how to behave in society? How to be a _respectable lady?_ Drink tea, sit prettily, _and all that?”_ He chuckles.

His hearty laughter _was infectious_. She smiled wide on seeing him do it too.

“What’s _so funny?”_ She asks as he almost doubled over chortling.

“Nothing. _Mo Nighean_ , _T’is just_ …” He laughs his throaty laughter, cutting himself off.

“The rate it took my co-ogha to learn all she knows about society, she. She didna' exactly _breeze_ through it..” He explains.

Edith cocked her head. “Really?” She asked in surprise.

“But… she’s so, _elegant, and proper_ …. And she’s so knowledgeable about it all. I could learn for a _million_ years, _and I’ll still_ have things to _learn. I’ll never be like her…”_ She groused.

“Edith….” He began, making her look at him, instead of dejectedly at her shoes. It was the first time she had heard him say her name. He spoke it like a _benediction._ The soft lull of his Scottish burr made her name sound a thousand times nicer, and softer, than she had ever known it. It thrilled her to hear him softly coo her name. Instead of calling her, _Mo Nighean, Sassenach, or Mo ghràidh. No. this time he said her name, and she loved the sound of it._

“My fair, elegant, fiery cousin is one of the most stubborn people I know. She did, I grant, follow etiquette. But she didna’ have any kind of _particular care_ for it.” He told her. “When I met her last, in London, she was a red-headed wallflower, who was incapable of holding her tongue if she felt she was being spoken down to. She’s a strong, sturdy woman. Because she’s herself. It takes learning, sure, how to present ye’self as a Lady. But it doesna' mean that you have to let it take away every facet of what makes ye’ yeself…” He told her.

Edith smiles.

“I suppose…” She understands.

“ _Trust me._ It’s no magic trick in behaving and being a Lady. Just _visual deception_ …” He promises.

“Does the same go for gentleman?” She asks. “Chivalry died long ago. You just keep up the pretence of all being _perfect, prince_ charmings?…” She asks.

“Aye. We rescue damsels every no’ and then to make ourselves feel better…” He promises.

He laughs.

“Well. You’re _done_ for the day…” She compliments.

He stands then, bounding up to his full, tall height that dwarfed her, accepting his hand as he helps pull her to her feet, he stoops, holding her eyeline as he reached for her book, handing it back to her.

“Wuthering Heights..” He smiled, handing it over. “ _Appropriate_. Were ye’ wandering the early morning moors to search for a dark, dashing, wild, Heathcliff of yer’ own, _Mo Nighean?”_ He asks her with a smile, his eyes narrowing in humour.

“Just because _I’m alone_ , doesn’t mean I’m _seeking a man_ to remedy that…” Edith tells him, as he helps her cross back over the sty, safely this time.

They come back over the sty, and walk along together, Edith had the book in her free hand, and the cravat still bunched to her head as they strolled along. The early morning sunrise turning the landscape to a beautiful, serene, terrain before them. The mist gliding over the grassy green hills. The honey gold sun reaching out to touch everything it could strain too. Edith noticed how the mornings sun turned his hair to spun copper in the light. It was mesmerising.

“So. What about you? Couldn’t you sleep either? Set out early to prowl the moors too?” She asks him.

“No. I, wanted to get out and explore around the dales. Though, I must say, compared to the glens and lochs we have at home, it’s _verra_ different.” He explains. “Still beautiful, but different…” He smiles, watching her side profile for a second.

 _Definitely different…_ He thinks. _And definitely beautiful, no doubt in his mind about that…_

“I long to see Scotland…” Edith told.

“Never been?” He asks.

She shook her head.

“A crime, _Mo Nighean Donn_. Ye’ve _got_ to go and see Scotland.” He encourages her.

“Truth be told. I’m _dying_ to go. The mystery, Celtic legend, the nature…” She explains. “I want to see it for myself. _One day_ I will…” She tells him obstinately.

“Ye should _come and see_ Alderth. One of the finest medieval castles in Scotland…In _my_ opinion..” He tells her cunningly. 

She smiles.

“You’re allowed to be biased. It’s _your home_.” She tells him.

“I am reminded of such, every day. By my mother, telling me, _I must marry soon_ , or Alderth goes to my father’s cousin. And _we McKurick’s_ are _too proud_ to let our home, that has been under Clan McKurick for seventeen generations, be given away to a stingy Clan Campbell Cousin.” He spoke with heavy disdain. His voice snapping in angry Scottish as he got _all lathered up_.

“Well. Luckily, none of my family are forcing me down the aisle. Not yet anyway. My mother is actually remarrying next week…” She smiles.

“ _Where’s your_ real Father, _Mo Nighean_?” He asks kindly.

“Chatsworth Cemetery.” Edith spoke with a hushed voice.

He looked across at her now, with tender concern and sorrow.

“I’m _so sorry_ to hear that, _Mo nighean_. _Dha-rìribh duilich_ _”_

“In English that means?” She asks. “I’m afraid _my meagre_ scraps of Gaelic won’t stretch _that far…”_ She tells.

“I said, ‘truly sorry’” He spoke. “Sometimes, I forget _my English_..” He tells her bashfully.

“How did he die?” He asks gently.

“He died in the Crimean War…” Edith spoke after a pause. “He was a soldier through and through. But, the man my mother is remarrying is….. _he’s wonderful_. And I _cannot wait_ to have him as my stepfather. He is kind, funny, and reverent. And he’ll make us _all very happy_ , I know he will. It’s just _who he is._ He is an _amazing_ man. And _I couldn’t be happier_ for my mother, _she deserves her happiness, at last_.” Edith smiles, and William could see she meant _every_ word.

“I can tell from the way ye’ talk, that _ye’ love him_ deeply. _”_ William eluded.

“He’s a good man, and match for her. And he debates religion with me. Not many people are _brave_ enough _dare do that_ …” She smiles.

He chuckles.

“Well, as long as _there’s no candlesticks_ nearby, I’ll debate with you on anything ye’ like til the cows _come home_ …” He smiles.

Edith sends him a look.

“I _might_ take you up on that…” She grins.

“Please do, _Mo Nighean_.”

“You call me that a lot, what does that mean?” She asks.

He winks at her, and taps his nose. Laughing to himself.

“That’s my Scottish secret. _Mo Nighean.”_

_~_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Agnes asked William how he got the bruise on his head, he smiled, and said that the library was full of beautiful surprises... She told him he'd been hit too hard on the head...
> 
> Mo Nighean - (mo- knee-ann) My Lassie <3 oh, yes. I ship this...


	114. Sibling Rivlary, Shinty, and Surprising Contests...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! man, it's so good to be back here! I am so sorry if none of you lovely lot have heard from me in a while. I've been a bit, here, there and everywhere really. Bit of writers block too, which doesna help (I need to stop writing Scottish before I start speaking it) and yeah, I have, about 143 messages In my inbox, which is insannnnneee. But if I can, I will reply to each one in due course. ANYWAYs, I hope you all enjoy this chap. I'm starting to adore the Scottish lot, they're so fun to write. and, yes, in regards to WIlliam/Edith, I'm going to be a little bit evil... I'm sorry. there may soon be a third player in the mix. I sense a love triangle coming on. AnyWHO its 2am here, and I am typing in an insane hyper, tea/red wine fuelled bout of sleeplessness. ENJOY and I'll be regular more often from now on, and that t'is a personal punk promise x love you guys, read away, my loves... read away....

 

 

 

 

~ Beautiful Rose Arch ~

 

 

Stepping out of doors into the sunshine, for her usual morning constitutional always awarded her the same mood. The first, being infinitely glad for the mere fact of having an English, country garden. When in bloom, in its summer climes, it was _the most_ beautiful setting of all. The second, was an overwhelming sense of pride, merriment and joy, feeling the gentle touch of warm sun, alike that of a gentle lover, flutter over her cheeks, and the aroma of lavender heavy, familiar, in the air. In the unforgiving sunshine that drenched the entire landscape, nothing was dulled in its lifting embrace. The rich emerald of the lawn is almost blinding, and she watches as the brimming bushes, teeming with roses, sway, as if to the private bliss of an unheard melody, in the light summers breeze that slyly sashayed through the gardens. She smiled, surveying over the merry sight before her.

She chuckles, throwing the large sunhat she held in her hands, to the settee by the patio doors, before she steps out, onto the shifting crunch of the gravel, she steps out into the merry embrace of nature, damning the consequence of not taking the precaution to don headwear. She lets herself fall prey to the mercy her beautiful country gardens. She closes her eyes, sighing a smile, on feeling the permeating warmth of the suns light on her forearms, and on the back of her neck. The warm air ruffled her skirts, and lifted tendrils of her hair. She can hear nature calmly bloom around her, and she is content. One hand resting on her swollen middle, the other swinging as she strode along. Slowly the grate of gravel underfoot is all she can hear, along with the gentle rustle and clash of lilac trees being affected by the wind about her, disturbing butterflies from their place, to drift across the lawn, like merry, bright petals, caught, lost on the wind. As she made her way along the lavender lined path, her pale hand reached out to brush against the swarming heads, or aromatic purple flowers as she walked, feeling the soft brush of them skim past her palm. Their rich, relaxing fragrance filling her senses. It was French lavender, so was all the more fragrant in comparison to its English cousin.

When she comes to the paths end, it branches into a circle, in the middle of which stood a fountain, proudly bedecked with a prancing still statue, rodin-esque in its erotic beauty, a Greek goddess, her aged, cracked grey skin, swarmed with moss, elegantly presiding over the bottle green pond, dotted with water lily’s that sat genially on the water’s surface. She saw a fleeting splash, and the quick body of a frog dart and disappear beneath the surface. After peering into the pond for a moment or two, she continues on.  Round the fountain, and up past the rose gardens, across the east facing lawn, near the red brick, of the walled kitchen gardens.

She watches a blackbird, hop lowly to scurry under the geranium hedge, and the monotone buzz of bees swarm past her as she walks along, heading for nowhere in particular. But in the far distance, she hears noises of activity, namely in the form of shouts, grunts and the clash of wood hitting wood. The sharp, dull smack that cracks sharply through the air of the peaceful garden, and, unless she was very much mistaken, the metallic crunch of metal, she could hear also. Curious, she ducks through the swarming rose, and wisteria arch, coming to the stiff oaken door wedged into the moss smothered, crumbling red brick wall at the end, she pushes on the worn, and creaking door, taking the medieval iron handle, and shoving it open, inwards. Affording her a glimpse of the wide, open expanse of the privet hedges, and shapes bushes that made up the sculpture maze before her. Not as closely knit as the swarming roses, or the lavender rows she had just walked past, this garden was more open, with more wider stretches of lawn, surrounded by immaculate walls of juniper green hedges, and chalky white gravel paths cutting a swathe through the rectangles of grass. She is not in the least bit surprised to see all of her cousins, amassed on the lawns, engaged in a fierce game of Shinty. Perfectly explaining the sounds of wood she heard.

She smiles all the more, leaving the door open behind her, she walks slowly along, coming closer to them. Tammas and Fergus clashed together, trying in earnest to defend the ball from Rabbie and Duncan, who were wielding their Camans like weapons, valiantly trying to hook the ball out from under their feet, swiping hard at the grass in attempts. Hamish, being the littlest one, was being herded out of the game by the sheer size of his bulkier, bigger brothers. But Elizabeth laughed aloud, seeing he would brook no opposition to winning, Size be damned. He scurried around Duncan, and with a solid whack, levied the ball in his direction, steering it away from them as his brothers growled, grunting and shouting in protest, as he scurried off, routing the game in his favour. Nothing made her prouder, apart from Hamish’s clever little victory, than seeing him pass it over to Agnes, who sprinted quicker than a whippet across the lawn, expertly dodging the ball her way. Besting all her male relatives at the sport, shunting them off with fierce shoves, and a sly, determined smile on her face. Especially at hearing her brothers groans of annoyance as she hit it to sail cleanly through the goal.

 _“Aggy!_ Would yer no’ atleast _ge’us a chance_ to score fair?” Tammas whines. Twirling his Caman in his hands in obvious agitation. Duncan wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve, huffing in breathlessness. Elizabeth watched Hamish scuttle back to his sister, and they clashed sticks in a smiling embrace, congratulating each other on their fine play. Fergus and Rabbie looked like they were just trying to stand upright, and catch their breath.

“When ye stop playing like _wee little lassies_ , and _creenin’_ about how it’s no’ fair, then maybe me n’ Hamish will _go easy_ on ye.” She smiles merrily to her annoyed siblings. Standing confidently, as a winner should, one hand on her hip, the other twiddling her Caman into the grass below. Her copper hair, loose, shone down to her shoulders, down her back, like a fine, shimmering curtain of copper-orange silk. Her clever, Persian blue eyes, bright with the exercise, glimmered in smug contentment out of her small, rounded, freckled face at besting her bumbling band of incensed brothers. All clad in their highland garb, even Hamish was in his little kilt. Their jackets and cravats lay abandoned in a heap of multicoloured fabric, they were all down to their cotton shirts, sleeves rolled, buttons undone to the sternum. Any whiff of etiquette was tossed to the wayside on the Shinty pitch, all that remained was the stark highland manner, kilts, boots, and shirts, in the strictest manner of comfort.

“It looked a _fair win_ to me, boys. I hate to concur” Elizabeth called across. Seeing that this _most definitely,_ displeased them.

“I _thank ye,_ Co-ogha.” Agnes winked across to her fair cousin.

“ _No fair_. Lizzie. Ye _always_ side with Aggy!” Rabbie pointed out.

“ _Of course_ I do. As penance for her putting up with you _rowdy lot_. I’m not going to _go against_ my _only_ female McKurick Cousin, now _am I?”_  Elizabeth smiles easily. Seeing this made Tammas roll his eyes, and Duncan smirked.

“Ye side with Mac, _too. Co-Ogha_. I’m beginning to question yer’ loyalty..” Duncan pointed out. With that cunning McKurick smirk on his lips, as he shifted his Caman to shuffle into the grass below. The sunshine caught the glimmer of sweat on his brow. His short copper spikes drooped over his forehead. In his advancing age, Elizabeth could see the similarity to Mac in him. Though William was the same age as she, born in the same glorious year, of 1834, she could see in him the man he was becoming, but there, in the sunlight, she could see it in Duncan too. The handsome, planes of a well-defined jaw, the solid blade of his nose, the surety in his confident eyes. All, she noted, were the features of a boy perching on the brink of manhood. It astonished her to recognise it, the cousin who was more than five years her junior, the cousin she can remember as a babe in arms, there was something so astounding about realising he was soon to become a man, in his own right. It was thoroughly heartening.

“Only when it comes to letting your sister win at Shinty. Duncan, my dear, other than that, I am _a persistently loyal_ member of clan McKurick, as is possible, in all my _Sassenach_ ways.” Elizabeth tells.

“And, Hamish was winning _too,_ may I _add_.” She tells them. Crossing her arms and stepping over onto the playing field. She saw the goalposts were being served as four empty plant pots. Obviously they had been sweet talking Bartley into lending them out for their game. Lest they fall _out_ of practice on their absence from the Highlands.

On her later visits to Alderth, she can remember being astounded by how active Uncle Angus, and all the McKurick children were. Where she had been bred a gentle young lady, her activities were usually confined to within the same four walls parlour at Montague Street, taking tea, needlework, reading or practicing her watercolours, all of which was thoroughly restricted to the safety of one’s home, under her stepmothers instruction. It was proper. It was what was done, and was would always be done in an etiquette following society. But in her visiting Alderth Castle, she was dazed to receive a shock to the senses, The McKurick Children, which then numbered just the three of them, Agnes, William and Duncan, were off and out as soon as dawn broke. Stag stalking across the heather strewn glens, hunting, playing Shinty, swimming in the loch in summer, climbing up the highland peak of Aonoch Mor, sword practice, and heavens knows how many others. She _would never let_ on to Araminta, but William  & co. were the ones who taught her how to fence, parry, block and attack in the art of the sword, and she became proficient at archery too, whilst she was at it. All thanks to her Highland relatives.

Duncan smiled genially over at her, Agnes came across to stand next to Elizabeth, throwing her Caman down into the grass. Standing near her cousin, she turned back to her brothers, whom looked relieved to see she had laid down her weapon, and was leaving them too it.

“In this case, saying ‘ye played like lassies’ would _be a compliment_. But, seeings as yer’ all whinging _like whimps,_ I’ll sit this one out to give ye’ a fair chance at winnin.” Aggy smiles gleefully. Tossing her Caman down with relish, the clear swaggering confidence of the victor present in her smile.

Elizabeth surveyed across the lawn, seeing that there was also a pile of claymores, Scottish longswords, a little dulled, unsharpened, laid in a clanking heap on the far side of the Shinty pitch. Clearly they had in mind to get in some sword practice aswell. Explaining the sounds she had heard in her walk up from the house. The metallic crunch of blade on blade, held by practiced, strong, brawny arms.

“That’s the _spirit._ ” The Duchess winks to her fair cousin. Her cheeks reddened from her exertion in the sun, and obviously the sheen on her brow was the healthy glow of exercise, but not helped by the fact she was wearing a cumbersome gown, stiff corset and all, and the rigid frame of maroon jacquard, with a cotton chemise under it, was bound to be stifling in such blatant, summer’s heat. In order to offer Agnes some respite, Elizabeth heads for the cosy nook, carved into the arc of the lilac trees not yards away, bordered by the swathes of purple flower clad branches, it would offer them some shade, and still allow them to preside over the ongoing match.

Agnes wiped a hand across her brow and joined her bonnie cousin. They strode slowly, glad to get out of the beating rays of unforgiving sun. They wandered over into the cool tide of the sun speckled shade. Freckles of suns-light made by the gaps of the trees branches.

“I don’t need to tell you keep up with them _astoundingly well.”_ Elizabeth flatters her relative, seeing this caused Agnes to let a prideful smile sprout across her small lips. Her features were pretty in the manner of a porcelain doll, her big, beautiful blue eyes were her prominent feature, alike her mother, the feline slant of her eyes were the most outstanding facial feature. Her nose was small, as was her mouth. But when she smiled, she had the biggest, brightest grin. Agnes’s beauty was a ruddy, robust sort of charm. No one would ever convict her of being particularly feminine, she’d been known to don breeches when she rode across the glens, yet, she knew how to behave in a dress. And when she did take the time to dress like a lady should, she _was_ beautiful. But her rough charms and mannerisms are what first come to everyone attention when they remark on her.

“It’s a daily chore, or atleast my mother says so. Truth is, I _never truly need_ to force me’self to keep it up. Father says if I wanted, I could run circles around them with all the parrying and riding I do, as if I’m just as much a man as the _rest of them_. But, ye know me, Cousin, If I _truly_ behaved like a lady, they wouldn’a give me the time of day.” She tells, as they sat on the small, comfy cradle of a cast iron bench. Watching as Tammie delivered a thoroughly brutal shove to his brother, sending him sprawling over to the grass below, shunting the ball across in Duncan’s direction. The harsh clatter of wood, smacking on wood, fills the air along with booted feet pounding grass, and the boyish, male grunts that come from fierce brotherly competition, and exertion.

“Your Father couldn’t be more proud of you if he tried…” Elizabeth remarks. “At any rate, from what your mother tells me, wedding bells aren’t too far away in your future?” She asks politely. This caused Agnes to smile wryly. Meeting her cousins eyes with a somewhat harsh counteract to her words.

“My mother remarks that they are nearing. I however, find me’self prone to Mac’s idea of self-sufficiency, and spinsterhood at present.” She tells.

“ _Ah, I see_ , I know a little of what _that’s_ like. Wedding bells that _only mothers_ seem to be capable of hearing.” Elizabeth nods, smiling with recollection at her own past experience of such. “ _Who was_ the match, if I may pry?” She adds in curiosity.

Agnes took a deep breath, staring ahead, watching Hamish rudely jab the end of his Caman into Fergus’s gut, winding him, and propelling the ball away. _He never did play fair… she’d never tell any of them that she taught him that move._

“Ian Wallace. He’s… _well, he’s no’ bad_. He’s a tenant on McKurick land, faithful to his laird, of course, as is his clan, and kin. But, _well…”_ She pauses. “William says though he’s a big, braw lad, wins most events every year at the clan highland games, _he hasn’a got_ two brain _cells to rub together_.” She spoke with disdain. “Father was fine with me refusing the match, but I think Mother was thinking of spring weddings, and a union of the clans. I didn’a wish to break her spirit, and tell her Father took me aside, and told me _no daughter_ o’ his is being wasted on a Wallace laddie. Especially not such a glumping great _glaickit bampot_ like him. Whose all muscle and no sense.” She sniggered.

“I willna’ use _the exact_ expression Mac used to describe him. It is too indelicate and unsavoury for me to say in front o’ a _Duchess.”_ She ribs. Cheekily shooting her auburn brows up her forehead as she japed her cousin.

Elizabeth gave her relative one of her sly, sideward, _looks._ It was a sharp, fleeting burst of displeasure that made her blue eyes look frosty. She patted Agnes hand, dismissing that gentle prod at her entitlement.

“You’re far too beloved to be thrown at the first suitor _you meet.”_ Elizabeth tells her. Agnes chuckled.

“I don’t seem ta be in their bad books fer’ it. They seem to be savin’ _all their dismay_ towards _ma oaf_ of an older brother.” She tells sincerely.

“I heard at breakfast.” Elizabeth awards. “Regale me with the tale. _How many_ failed matches has Mac turned his nose up at, _then?”_ She enquired.

Agnes screwed her face up in concentration as she thought.

“Approximately? Or actual, _exact_ count?” Agnes asks glumly. Elizabeth raises her brows in surprise.

“ _That_ many?” She asks in incredulity.

“Aye. He’s a _fussy dunderheid_ according to father. To be four-and twenty, and _still unmarried_ , nearing the turn of his twenty-fifth birthday. I swear, Mother’ll box his ears, and have his guts if he doesn’a do something about it soon. I believe that the last failed heiress, was the one to push him in the loch when he teld her they weren’a suited fer’ one another. Mother was _so_ angry at him, I’ve never _seen_ her _so angry._ She threatened to march him up the aisle by _his ear_ if he didn’t start taking the matter o’ marriage seriously. But all he seems to want to do, is practice his sports, romp around the countryside, and help father with the tenants. I _know him_ , Lizzie. He doesn’a want a marriage, nor a wife for fear that she’ll boss him about Alderth til they’re old and withered. And every girl who has dared enter a match wi’ him has been _no’ right_ fer’ him. Too spoilt, too shy, too fussy, prim, and every other _cursed thing_ under the sun. He’s ne’er liked _any o’ them,_ I don’t really blame him, they all seemed to have the Castle and riches of the clan set in their sights. No love fer’ him, or fer’ his _history, his clan._ Only fer’ money. My only worry now, is that the next girl will be forced on him. And Mother won’t let him _even so much_ as _think,_ about dismissing her so readily, and there’s every chance she could be _as foul_ as those who’ve come before her…” She fretted.

“I know you love Mac, Agnes. _I do,_ we all love that _infuriating_ man. But try not to worry, Mac will do what’s right for you, his kin, the clan, for Alderth, and for him. You can have faith in it. Matter of fact, I’d bet _my unborn_ child, that whomever he ends up marrying, he’ll find the _right_ woman.” She promises. Because she had confidence in her cousin, _truly she did_ , and even if the match with Edith didn’t work out, because she wasn’t naïve, she knew it might not work for them, she’d be overjoyed if it did, but ultimately it all came down to whether her cousin, and her niece would be at their happiest with each other, and if it was not to be, then she wouldn’t fight them on it.

“I know mother is trying to do what’s best fer’ him. But _he dinnae_ see it that way…” She added wryly.

“It’s Mac. Of course he doesn’t. I can see her care for him in wanting to get him settled. I will be a mother too, I know what she feels. She wants him to be happy. How could she not? But, William will be his traditional obstinate, stubborn, _Scottish_ , self. Come hell or high water. But I’ve every faith it’ll sort itself out, Agnes.” Elizabeth tells her fretting cousin. And what’s more, the tones of calm assurance in her voice soothe Agnes’s frazzled reservations.

“Does he always get up _at dawn?_ I’m curious… it must be a _new_ habit. When I was last at Alderth he was grumpy from being roused _at noon.”_ Elizabeth laughed, remarking how he had grown into a man in her absence.

“Its Fathers doing. Once William reached 20, Father insisted that he should come on tenants rounds. As the lairds son, it would be his duty in a few years’ time, after all, when he marries. At first he hated it. I believe Duncan even helped dump an icy cold pale of water on him, when he wouldn’t get up Straight from the loch, icy cold too. As it was winter. He’s surprised us all though, he even goes out now, when father can’t, to go and see our renters. He _loves it_. Helping the cotters with a leaky roof, or when auld farmers can’t tend their crops anymore, needing a farmhand, Mac is there to help. Fathers over the moon with how he is, how he’s taken the responsibility of acting as the Laird of Alderth seriously. It’s taken strain off both their minds.” She tells.

“I always knew Mac would be good at whatever task he was put too. Once his minds on it, there’s no budging him.” Elizabeth speculated.

 _“Anyway_. That’s _more_ than enough time we’ve devoted talking about _my dobber_   o’ a brother. I want to talk about my Co-ogha’s new life as a Duchess.” Agnes leered.

“A _subtle_ transition, Miss McKurick.” Elizabeth offered with narrowed eyes at her cousins cheeky grin.

“I can’t believe it. Here you are, bonnie as ever, about to hae’ a _Bairn_ , with a man who is, I’m certain to be, the most kind, handsome man I’ve _e’er met,_ and a house the size o’ Versailles. Yet, when I met you last you were a deb with a crippling fear that a eligible idiot would ask ye’ _to dance_.” She beamed.

Elizabeth stroked a hand over her bump. Savouring the life within, as she smiled widely. Her year had _certainly_ been a _most glorious_ one, and it was only halfway through as of yet. A husband, a home, a child on the way. And a whole new, wonderful set of friends, and a family. She was happy to believe herself the luckiest woman alive.

“Being a Duchess is, like, a _new wonder_ every day. No amount of etiquette Araminta hammered into me helped with it, I must say. I didn’t learn how to balance ledgers, fix pony traps, or help fix chimneys. Damn society, all I learnt was how to waltz without stepping on toes, how to sit properly, and politely pour tea, and be graceful.” She cursed, laughing at the notion that her Step-mama had considered that set of skills _adequate enough_ with which to carry Elizabeth through her wedded life.

 _But nothing_ could have prepared her for marrying into a Dukedom. Let alone having such _a glorious human_ for a husband, by her side. But, she was a quick study. And she picked up her way of leading a Duchesses life within a week, Thomas was certain. She paid calls, took baskets, gave every ounce of charity was possible, and then some moreover. She may not have been raised to be acclimatised to the upper echelons of snobby society that seemed to permeate -unwanted - through her husband’s acquaintance, all of whom seemed to turn their noses down at her, the upstart of a professors daughter, and how on earth she could possibly wish to align herself with one of the oldest, most eligible peerages in the land. They could have her curt, underhanded, veiled insults at thinking themselves so far above her, she shunned their hostile derisions of her with a turn of her head, and a winning smile. In a way that oft left Thomas smirking, and infinitely proud to have one such as her on his arm. Elizabeth dealt with the duties of a Duchess in her own way. It may not have been proper, or usual – as her ogress of a mother-in-law took care to point out – but she made it successful. That was the single most important thing of all. She had a feeling that William was of the same canny breed as she, the type to do things not as _they had_  and had always been done, but how _he felt_ they should be done.

“How is she coping with you being so far away from London?” Agnes asked.

“She’s bearing it _admirably_. I think had she not Felicity to keep her entertained as a ward, then she’d note my absence more sorely. As it is, my younger sister is _more than_ capable _of wholly_ taking up her time. Araminta will not cease writing me new names she keeps thinking up for our little bundle to come. Plus Father writes that he misses my company at home like mad when he’s dragged here, there and everywhere to balls every other night, to find Felic a suitor. For it’s my understanding that my Stepmother and Sister do more than enough to drive him rather _berserk._ Asking him about gowns, telling him the ton gossip… He loves them dearly, but _you know_ my stepmother and sister. Between them they could drive _a saint_ to unholy distraction.” The Duchess smiled.

“I _cannae wait_ to see them again, Lizzie. Felicity sounds like _a proper_ society lady now.” Agnes assessed.

“ _Oh,_ she is the talk of the town, I’m sure. _Lord help_ the eligible young men out this season. They’ll need their wits about them for keeping up with the flirtations of Felicity Farrow.” Elizabeth judged.

“She always was one for being a _dally_ sort of girl..” Agnes assessed.

Watching across the lawn, both women saw that Shinty had been abandoned by Duncan and Hamish, who had now chosen to take up their claymores, on the far side of the lawn. The dull metal glinted in the sun, like the flickering silver scales of a darting fish in dark waters. They held them aloft, parrying back and forth, the swords clinking and scraping against one another. Both brothers held the swords with the familiar ease of having contended in the art of the sword, before. Matter of fact, Elizabeth knows that everything the youngest McKurick knew, had been taught by his eldest sibling. Clearly Shinty was getting to be too much for them in the beating heat of the midday sun, when they were used to playing it in colder conditions, why, even in the driving frost and snow, they played.

“Hamish seems well. The others take it easy on him, being the youngest, I see.” Elizabeth remarked.

“Only cause Duncan knows William will skelp him if he dinnae show him compassion. Mac’s got Hamish’s back. One time, I remember, Tammas and Rabbie were given’ Hamish a hard time when he could’na set his arrow straight in his archery lessons. Hamie was near _to tears_ that he could’na do it. William stomped over to them, clipped the both of them round the back of their _bampot heids_ , and then showed Hamish how to shoot. Now, they _don’t dare_ mock him. Cause Mac taught him how to flawlessly hit the bullseye each time, now they go to _Hamish_ for lessons, they dinnae have the nerve to make fun o’ him anymore, now Mac is his braw protector.” Agnes told.

“It’s nice to hear he’s a veritable _mother hen_ when it comes to his littlest brother. That’s how it _should be.”_ Elizabeth spoke, heartened by what she had heard.

“Only cause he knows he doesna need to defend _me_ anymore. The amount o’ times he was told off by mother and father for havin’ purple knuckles from guarding my reputation when we were kids. From the boys in the school-yard who called me out just fer’ for being a girl. I think he actually _missed_ the skirmishes in aid of his siblings wellbein’.” Agnes recalled.

“I’ve _no doubt_ he does. I can safely assure that it comes with the territory in being the eldest,” Elizabeth tells.

They were watching the triplets still shove, budge, and violently attack each other while playing Shinty, as Duncan and Hamish continued to parry with their swords. But then, through the rose tunnel, came two very surprising figures.

 _“Ach_. Speaking of the devil…” Agnes grinned, peering over.

Both ladies shared a look as Edith and William came into view. Walking, conversing together as they came through the rose and wisteria arch. Elizabeth tilted her head, assessing them as they watched the Shinty match, and Duncan and Hamish with their claymores. Edith was swathed in a shabby pelisse, and out of date cotton dress, and cracked brown boots. The outfit she wore for taking her cross-country walks. And William, the tall, strapping figure that he was, was in his traditional highland garb. Kilt, velvet jacket, leather calf-length boots, and an undressed white cotton shirt. Elizabeth smiled slyly at seeing they looked very comfortable talking to one another. _It did make her wonder…_

“Thomas’s niece?” Agnes asked. Elizabeth nodded in response.

“The _very one_.” Smiled the Duchess.

“She resembles him. In the eyes. She’s a _verra_ bonnie lass.” Agnes smiles to her cousin. Elizabeth smiled, rising to a stand. Fixing her rumpled skirts.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you. You’ll get along like a house on fire, _I’m sure_ of it.” Elizabeth smiles. Agnes rises to her feet, smiling, and they head to meet Edith and William out of the rose tunnel. The pair of them smiled as the Duchess, and Williams sister drew near. It was then that Elizabeth noticed the purple bruise on Williams brow, and the fresh scarlet nick on Edith’s pale forehead.

 _“Goodness,_ what happened to the pair of you?” Elizabeth enquired.

Edith swallowed, looking uncertain of how to proceed with her sentence. She floundered nervously. And William looked to his shoes, smirking, before he was the one to speak first.

“I, _em_. Walked into yer’ guest bedchamber doorframe in the night. Co-ogha. Silly o’ me, _eh?”_ William leered. Making Elizabeth fairly suspicious as to his mirth.

“Yes. And _I, fell_. On my walk. On the sty. William was kind enough _to...lend_ me his cravat _and_ his hand… in _assistance.”_ She finished quickly.

“I _thank ye_ for the clarification. Sassenach. It was _sore needed_.” Mac grinned. Edith looked both nervous and annoyed at that.

“I see…” Elizabeth spoke slowly. “Well. As long as your both in good form. _But,_ Edith I’d go and see Robson, and have the cut dressed, just to _be safe.”_   She recommended. Edith nodded a smile at the interjection. She then turned to William.

“…And normally, I _would_ endorse you to see to your wound too, If I wasn’t so well acquainted with how _you deal_ with being injured. Which _is not at all.”_ She spoke wryly to her tough, stubbornly scottish relative. William folded his hands behind his back, and beamed at his cousin.

“Don’t worry yer’ bonnie _Sassenach heid_ about it, Lizzie.” He eased.

“About you?” Elizabeth remarked, dryly. “ _Never._ ” She pledged. “Worrying about you, Mac, would mean I’d suffer _twice.”_  She explained, seeing William roll his eyes as his sarccy cousin, and Agnes barked out laughter.

 _“Ach,_ now there’s a truth.” Agnes added.

“Edith, you may have met the atrociously stubborn eldest McKurick male, but may I introduce you to _his deeply_ unfortunate, yet _lovely_ sister, Miss Agnes Janet McKurick.” Elizabeth smiled genially.

“It’s a pleasure to meet ye’ Edith. I’ve heard only _glowing praise_ of ye.” Agnes smiled. Her silky Scottish burr was a pleasure to the senses.

“Pleasures all mine, Miss McKurick. Any relative of my Aunt’s is bound to be _more than_ agreeable…”

“Especially one with _six_ brothers.” Elizabeth flatters. Winking at Agnes.

 _“Heavens.”_ Edith exclaimed, looking in astonishment at the brawling pack of boys on the lawn behind her aunt.

“That’s _an understatement.”_ Agnes adds wryly. “There’s

“She’s the brawest lass in all the highlands for growing up with us rowdy lot, as my father remarks daily. It’s the _making of ye’_ , dear sister.”

“And dinnae _you forget_ it, Brother. I could arch, parry and fight rings _around ye’_.” Agnes promised confidently. Never one to not be determined to prove she was just as equal in the fight, as one of her strapping brothers. Mac narrowed his eyes at his sibling.

“Then I think, ye’ should put yer’ words into action. _Janet…”_  William goaded.

The ladies all watched as he shucked off his coat, and threw it atop the pile of forgotten jackets. Agnes folded her arms and watched him with a raised, amused brow as he picked up a claymore, weighed it in his hands, and pointed it toward her. It sparkled dully in the sun, and William looked both playful, and deadly serious. The gleam in his blue, cats eyes challenging his sister to rise to his bait. His feet were stood, spread wide apart, and his hair and kilt were ruffled in the wind.

“ _You want me_ to make a fool of ye’ brother?” Agnes asks condescendingly. Proverbially prodding the highland bear with a stick.

“I’d like to know if ye think that ye’ could _out parry me,_ seeings as ye’ speak so _loudly_ of yer’ victories…” Mac explained calmly. Though his eyes narrowed into teasing, amused slits.

Agnes looked more than tempted to step up to his goading test. But it was _not she_ who shed her coat, stepped close, and drew a sword, clashing against Williams own as he visibly tightened his grip at the opponent crossing blades with him.

Edith smiled at seeing him startle, if but only a fraction, at her defying his contest to Agnes.

“May I?” She asks Agnes.

“Be my guest, Edith.” Agnes grins.

She moved herself accordingly. Her feet in the stance correctly, arm held high, and able to block expertly with a wave of her arm. Her ravens hair, loose and swaying in the breeze, made him look deep into those grey eyes, the exact shade of a stormy cloud, bright in their assertion of his dare.

“You seem _overly confident_ , yourself. Mr McKurick…” She trials him. “You seem to hold the opinion that all lassies can’t hold their mettle. But how would you fare _with me_ , as your opponent?” She leers.

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aswell as being a Librarian three days a week, Edith also has a mind later in life, to become a Governess. In taking her job working for a wealthy family in Derbyshire, teaching their young children, it becomes apparent to her, she finds more than diversion in her work.... possibly even... Love?
> 
> Bampot. Dobber. Glaickit. Dunderheid. - basically all gaelic/Scottish slang for idiots. and Shinty is like a version of hockey. Caman are the 'clubs' used to play it. and Claymores are Scottish broadswords.


	115. Authors Noticle

Hello all my dearly devoted readers. 

Yes I have been away quite a bit on a-not-so-merry little hiatus. 

Words cannot say how dreadfully sorry I am that I’ve been gone for so long. The academically busy life of of a burgeoning illustrator has plenty of demands that draw me away from my second most beloved/beautiful hobby. I suppose I’d better do something with the 200 messages in my inbox. (200! That’s insanely wonderful that it’s my scribbles that have collected 200 comments! I’m floored!) Blooming heck. I’ll try and give a reply to each in turn! I’m hoping now that I’ve got a much better handle on my studies. I’ll be able to devote time to my scribblings. I just had to get to terms with coming back in my own time (forgive the prententious bollocks nature of that comment)

Truth be told, in my absence, I had a bit of a bumpy road these last few months with my degree. And getting over that struggle is such a relief. I finally feel able again. Happy. In a different place. Able to write. To continue on with the characters lives on here (which I daydream about often!) and which in my spare time, when my mind wanders. I find myself doodling or daydreaming about them. So you can expect to hear me come out of my writing hibernation in the next few weeks. Because, god, I missed this lovely website and it’s even lovelier people/readers. 

I might even combine my day job with this and start putting the Kenworthy Clan into my art forms. 

Watch this space and keep em’ peeled folks.

May the force be with you. Gabba gabba hey. & etc. Have a lot of ever so much love from, 

a happy Punk 

X


	116. Duels, Swords, and Miserable Brothers...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Brothers can disagree, right? more on the way for this. Up next. A dinner and clan gathering with all Kenworthy members present. Including captains, librarians, clergymen and Mad auld aunts. Quite a lot to look forward too. Heck. I'd best get typing... Enjoy this for now x

 

 

Elizabeth’s auburn brow arced in wry amusement as she watched Edith and William – _quite literally_ – cross swords with one another. Agnes had crossed her pointed elbows across her chest,  she too, smiling at Edith’s bravado. The summers wind drifted gently across them all, lifting the fine copper sheen of Agnes’s poker straight hair back from her shoulders, and ruffling the brim of her flimsy sunhat.

Williams Prussian blue cats eyes dissected his opponent from head to toe, as if trying to discern her stance, for weaknesses. He retracted his sword from crossing with Edith’s, and turned to the side, for her to better examine that handsome profile of his as he chuckled. His smile pulling back over his square, white smile. Edith kept her stance, if only shifting to better ground her grip, shrugging out of her shabby pelisse. It drifted in a forgotten crumple of fabric on the brilliantly emerald, sun warmed, lawn. William didn’t settle, rather, like a pacing big cat, he stalked Edith in a slow circle. Looking at the placement of her arms, the angle of her hold. The rigidity of her feet placement. She followed his movement, watching his loose cotton shirt, and his thick tartan kilt drift so slightly in the breeze that engulfed them both. His boots skimmed the too long grass with every step. She could hear the whisper of it.

“ _I see ye_ know how to hold a claymore, _lass.”_   He compliments. But to Edith’s ears it sounded testing. He was evaluating her, and quite why that made her stomach squirm _so giddily,_ she _couldn’t fathom._

“A soldier for a father, Godfather, _and_ an Uncle. Aswell as having been thoroughly _versed_ in the art of fencing by a _most instructive_ Aunt. _One does_ pick up _a thing or two_ …” Edith told him with a self-satisfied smile tugging at her lips. William came a full circle about her now, his stomach clenched as a wisp of her dark hair floated across her cheeks, tickling at her lips. He can’t deny he found her skill with a weapon, exceedingly… _interesting_.

He nodded, taking in her words, impressed. She watched that shaggy copper hair get tumbled and tangled in the wind. Tangling in the sun’s beam, turning to spun crimson, copper, scarlet, and red titian, gold. _Mesmerising._

“ _And here_ , I was waiting to hear to tell me, ye’ learnt it from one of _yer books… Mo nighean.”_ He teases her.

With an annoyed grit of her teeth, and narrowed eyes, she lets the handle fall round her hand, swinging down, almost letting it fall, but as it spun through her fingers, she gripped it, tipping the blade to point upwards, angled near his exposed neck. The triangle of skin showing below his neck, slightly down his broad chest, she noticed was growing dewy in the stickiness of the suns _bare_ heat. As were her temples, she was sure.

He recoiled lightly, grinning mischievously across at her, stumbling a controlled step back, his eyes dark with amusement. So he should’ve been. That move _was not_ one on an inexperienced swordswoman. _She noted with glee, that her father had taught her that skilled manoeuvre_.

“You deem it fit to tease me when _I’ve a weapon to hand?”_ She enquires.

“He has a _fatal flaw_ which I believe is otherwise known as, _being an idiot_.” Agnes call across, interjection on their duel.

“I’d watch you _guard your tongue, here_ , _Mac Aoidh._ ” Elizabeth interjects from the side-lines of the light hearted battle. “Though her hair isn’t _as fiery_ in colour, _as mine_ , you’ll find _my darling Edith’s_ temper is _more than_ a match for _your own.”_ The duchess warns. Sending a wink to Edith when she looked in her Aunt’s direction.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t have long to admire it. In a quick, well-practiced strike, he swings his sword quickly up, wondering _how_ she’d counter it with so little time to act. With a flick of her wrist, both hands go to grip the handle more firmly. Allowing her to raise her sword lengthways to counter his attack, bringing his down sharply. Metal against metal rang out, screeching, clashing and biting together. Elizabeth and Agnes scurried to retreat to safer ground. This could manifest into a violent fight, judging by Williams penchant for teasing Edith. _Her money was on her stout hearted niece to win the skirmish._

 _“Nmm.”_ William assessed. “ _Good_ counter block.” He awards her, his tall frame arcing over hers. She swallowed, keeping her hands steady, and her eyes on him. She tilts her head.

“I thank you, _Mac Aoidh_..” She leers confidently.

“But _how_ is your footwork, _lass…_ ” He asks himself. He retracts, and takes a step back, before trying a different angle of attack. He readjusted, and tried to swing the sword up, from her left. An uppercut of a blow. She quickly moves her feet accordingly, stepping quickly first to the side, and then backwards, put putting her body forwards, so as to provide a powerful stance that left little weakness. She brings her sword down up and over his, directing a blow to send his blade downwards, away from her.

His response to that move, was a throaty chuckle. She made no move to respond. He braced himself into position again.

“If I move, _here?_ ” He asks aloud. Seeing that with every step he took. She took equal measures to ensure she kept rival to his stance.

He smiles wickedly at her. Unable to believe this demure girl, _this librarian,_ with a heart for literature, poetry and education, could be _so skilled_ with a claymore in her hands. _He’d never seen the like._ All the lasses he had the honour of knowing were so _boringly, transparently_ dull. Whereas she, was an absolute _enigma_ , that he had only just scratched the surface of. _Dare he say_ _how forwards it sounded,_ but he looked forwards to unravelling _more_ of her character, her personality. There were _worlds_ , _voids_ and _galaxies_ more to Edith Everett than he had first _dared to blindly judge._ She was more than a debutante darling of society who favoured books over ballrooms. He _couldn’t wait_ to unknot more of this complex girls charm.

“Don’t smile at me like _that_ …” Edith glares, though she softened it with a smile.

“ _Why ever_ not?” He asks with a smirk. Making a practice ark in the air before him. Cutting a solid ‘ _thwoopp_ ’ in an invisible slice through the air.

“Because I _haven’t yet_ deciphered _what_ it _means._ ” She spoke with a smile. Watching him like a hawk. _First rule, never take your eyes from your opponent._

“What my _smile means_ , Miss Edith?” He asks her.

“It means I consider myself _thoroughly_ impressed.” He smiles, _in that way_ , across at her. Though  his eyes were narrowed. And she didn’t like the look of _the deviousness_ that sat now, lingering there. He weighted his sword in his hand. Her eyes flickered down to his big, broad hands. And that, as it turns out, was _her flaw…_

His next strike was so fast, she was ashamed to say it almost scared her. Like a coiled python, he struck quickly. One blow to her right, she barely countermanded, before another that clanged to her right. She tried to keep the strong position of her feet, _truly she does_ , but his attacks leave _too little_ time for her to ready herself. _He is too quick._ Shamefully, she feels herself retreat from him and his blows. It all happened in a flurry of movement, so she can’t see any way of countermanding him. But she feels a soft tap on the back of her sword holding hand, and her grip slackens, before she knew it, she took another step back, but feels him come close, his hand across her back, clutching her weapon, to press diagonally into her shoulder blades, guiding her body into the big, strapping, broad one that was now _very close_ to her own. His chest engulfed her, and that familiar scent of him swallowed her whole. _Heather, honeysuckle and earthen moss._  

She gasps, peering up at him to see that his sword, he now held an inch away from her throat. Their midsections were touching, and she was forced to look up at him looming over her. Having used her two seconds of faltering to secure a victory. Her mouth gapes and she is, for only a moment, scared of his closeness. She can see the gold flecking his irises. The bronzed stubble of his jaw, and his lips gape too, realised how close they were, _how compromised_. Close enough to feel the heat of one another’s breath on their cheeks. Close enough _to touch._ _Close enough to kiss, William thinks._ Also able to feel the warmth of the others body heat through thin layers of clothes. She swallows, and his eyes _couldn’t help_ but land on hers as she moistens her lips. She blinks, slowly coming back down to earth, and he relaxes his grip on the sword. He too, regaining his senses. Regarding their current position as _highly_ improper. _He hated_ to think he may have scared her doing this tactical flourish, toward her.

_God help him, those large, cerulean silver eyes of hers gazing up at him in fear hit him straight in the heart. He was amazed to find how that robbed him of his breath._

But he got his victory handed right back to him, as he felt her hand nudge against his ribs. He looked down between their bodies, and saw she had _his_ _sgian dubh_ nestled to press into his third rib. How she had taken that off him without his notice he’d never understand. He shook his head at her, tilting it to show he thought that underhand. Now he knows why that _doe eyed look_ had been on her face, and it was all to _play him like a card_. Distract him. _Minx, he thinks._

“Might we call this _a draw_ then?” Edith smiles brightly. Smug in her victory now, too.

“ _Aye_. We might.” William smiled smugly, withdrawing himself from being so perilously close to her.

“ _I dinna fancy_ my own blade piercing between _my ribs_. _Sassenach_.” He glares. Throwing down her claymore to land on the soft cushion of the grass beside them, far away. She turns the blade around, gifting him back the handle. He took it, cautiously, his big, broad hand covering and dwarfing her own. Taking it back, sliding it in place into his sock. Under the lip of his calf reaching boots. The other sword he throws away, too. She turns to reach her coat, scooping it up from the lawn.

“If _you’ll excuse me_ , I think I need to avail myself of a bath, and some ointment for _my eye_. _Good day,_ Mr McKurick. Happy sword fighting.” She bids with a beautiful smile. Starting to walk away, where Elizabeth and Agnes were awaiting her, by the mouth of the arch of wisteria and roses. Smiling across at her, impressed at her sneaky manoeuvre, that went to show she was a more than skilled opponent to handle a fiery headed scot.

“He’ll be _head over heels_ by the time the week _is out_.” Agnes winked slyly to Elizabeth as they stood conversing. Elizabeth arched an auburn brow, pleased with the sight of them almost tangled together. _She wasn’t wrong after all…_

“ _And dinna think_ I didn’t _notice_ how ye’ve not-so-carefully thrown _them together, Co-ogha.”_ Agnes adds. Nudging her relative softly in the ribs.

Elizabeth’s face was the smiling picture of serenity. “I’ve no idea _what you mean_ , _dear_ cousin.” She lies, tugging her shawl tighter about her. Her eyes took a cunning shade under the brim of her sun hat. Agnes narrowed her eyes and smiled at the woman. Though, match-making be damned, Her _clotheid_ of a brother, and Miss Edith, did make a _fine looking pair…_ and she was a _lovely girl_ , dare she say, she wouldn’t mind someone as interesting as her for a sister-in-law, one day…

William moved to clutch at Edith’s arm before she moved away, out of sight, back to the house. Catching her attention for a second.

“ _One_ thing, _Mo Nighean_.” He begins, with one of his favoured, endearing, _‘pet’_ Gaelic names for her. “Ye’ tell me where ye learnt that move..” He asks, curiously. Edith smiles, and her eyes flickered across…to _her Aunt._

He looked somewhat taken aback. “ _Lizzie?”_   He asked. In shock.

“She insists, that _no_ gently bred noblewoman should be _without the means_ of which _to defend herself…”_  She smiles, before nodding in a casual bow, skirting round him, and heading back up to the house for that bath she’d been _hankering for._ William couldn’t help but watch after her as he left. He watched her, with a soft smile on his face, as she came to Agnes and Elizabeth, and the ladies three, moved down the arch out of sight, back through the gardens. Leaving him and his brothers devoid of female company, practicing their sports out on the sun baked lawn. He was so busy watching after the disappearing women, he didn’t notice Duncan stalk close to his brother.

“Father _would never_ allow it, and _ye know that.”_  He warned. _Duncan always was the spoil sport of the clan._

“Ne’er _ye mind_ what Father _will,_ or _willna_ allow me.” William growled back in annoyance. Firmly wiping sweat off his brow with his shirt sleeve.

“She _won’t_ be able to do it _, William_.” He presses. The larger scot turned and glared at his skinnier brother. Though they shared the same chin, and colouring. They were not identical. William was taller, broader in the chest, where Duncan was leaner, and shorter than his elder sibling. Mac turned, his hands on his hips, and his face was a scowl that could’ve rivalled thunder.

“Shut _yer trap,_ _ye gommeral_. And ye _let me worry_ about finding my own suitable _wife. Aye?”_   William presages. His tone a low, snapping, bark of a Scottish accent. Like a terrier. But bigger, and with substantially _more red hair_.

“I’m _jus sayin’ Mac Aoidh_. Think about it, _verra,_ carefully. _It’s Alderth’s,_ and _our clans_ , _our kins,_ future _ye’ll be riskin’_. Cause if _she is_ the one ye pick, she’ll be a Sassenach in a place where that is no welcomed _too kindly_.” Duncan informed his brother.

William began to feel rage gnaw at his stomach. It wouldn’t be the first time that Duncan and he had been locked in a brawl. They’d given one another a _fair_ few black eyes before now. Duncan hated that he wasn’t the heir, the firstborn son. _Always_ was he trying to usurp Williams role as the head of Alderth’s clan, and William was getting sick of his meddling. He was forever picking holes in his and fathers work on the estate. Nattering and whining at Williams failings like an ever present, _annoying gnat_ on his big brothers shoulder.

“When I want advice from an _amadain_ , I’ll ask fer it.” William insulted. Duncan, it seems, _refused_ to keep _quiet_ on the matter.

“ _Besides_ , how could you expect a _spoilt brat_ like be able to _run our_ -“ Duncan had been ready to say more. But quickly found his shirt front fisted into Williams hand, and he is tugged clean off his feet, right into his brothers chest, so they were nearly pressed nose to nose, Duncan forced to look at the angered scowl of his taller brother. Williams muscles were bulging, and Duncan’s measly bodyweight and strength was _no_ match. _Not now Mac Aoidh was angry._

 _“Ye_ forget that I am the head of our clan now. And you _dare talk_ in _disparagement_ to Edith again, _I will_ stick a blade in yer thigh. Duncan. _I dinna care_ if yer my brother. She is the relative of our host, and you are _being disrespectful_ to our Co-ogha, saying _such foul things_. _I don’t know_ where ye’ve laid yer manners _, but_ I suggest you find them again _sharpish. Or you’ll answer to me, and trust_ me when I say I’ve _no trouble beating_ the information into your _senseless heid. Got it?”_ He asks Duncan. Who gives a _surly, silent glare_ as his response. William shoves him away, Duncan stumbles back, finding his feet again, as he fought to right his rumpled clothes.

“Dinna tell me ye _like her now?”_ His younger brother sneered. William picked up the claymore and lobbed it at his brothers feet, it stabbed with a thud into the grass, just as he moved forwards to take a step. Had he moved forwards by so much as an inch, the sword would’ve _gone through_ his foot. _Shame. William growled to himself._

“None of _yer bloody, damn_ , business…” Mac snarled gently. Turning his back and walking away. Picking up his clothes as he went. Leaving Duncan to his miserable self. Off to take himself somewhere to think for a while. Preferably somewhere where he could pinch a dram or two.

 

~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benedict Carlton is Godfather to Edith and Judith. He was a valuable, consoling friend to Iris after Johns death. As he had been the young man she was not so seriously courting in London before she met John as their families sought a great alliance to join the house of Kenworthy/Carlton. Hence why he was so keen to help save Iris/Hugh’s relationship. He greatly esteems her. Much to Thomas’s relief. They both knew it was an amicable association.


	117. David & Goliath, Dragons, and Tall Scots...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's so, very, damn, long. other than that, enjoy xxxxx love, punk 
> 
> Oh. And I’m sorry for my evilness at the end

 

 

Elizabeth hummed a merry tune to herself as she strode through the halls, bidding a cheery good evening to two housemaids just off to bed. She smiled warmly at them, walking along to the parlour where she had informed everyone to gather before dinner.

Tonight was quite a gathering of the clans. Iris, Hugh and HRH were back from visiting with Hugh’s parent’s in Hampshire, and with _any luck_ , by now they had a _non-_ soused, _non-_ shouting, and _non-_ chauvinistic priest, ready to marry them in two weeks’ time. The Scottish lot were going to be present tonight _too_ , and _even Ophelia_ was putting in a rarefied appearance. Elizabeth was trying _, hard,_ to put that thought behind her of _whatever madness_ would be dredged up due to _that circumstance_ occurring this eve. Chatsworth’s dining table would be _the busiest_ the Duchess had _ever seen_ it in her time here, with all _sixteen_ members of her nearest and dearest, dining, drinking and making merry with her.

She smoothed a hand down her dark velvet skirts. Her gown tonight was one of _her favourites_. It  certainly did her figure a _great number_ of favours, even with her impending pregnancy bump. That was, if she were to believe _the purring compliments_ this gown would cause her husband to whisper hotly into her ears. It was a deep, almost black, shade of velvet, a colour that was called ‘ _midnight ink’_ it cinched tight about her waist, and turned into long, flowing skirts, collected back into a bustle, with a slight gathered train to the back of it.

The cut of it bared her shoulders, that were capped with sapphire blue gossamer, and a silver laced stomacher of fabric sewn to the bodice, emblazoned with gleaming silver buttons. It was simple, yet _very elegant_. She wore her hair up, curled to an absolutely perfect arrangement, held with a silver buckle clip, along with silver diamond droplets in her lobes, along with a silver _and_ sapphire necklace that she’d liked the look of in the jewellers in Castleton. Fresh from her bath, scented with jasmine and lavender, she strode confidently to the parlour, pushing open the door, surprised to find it, save for her _very tall_ , Duke, astoundingly empty. This fact caused her to stop abruptly in the doorframe as her hand idly fixed stray curls to the back of her neck.

Thomas, whom had his back to her, attending to pouring himself a glass of something from the decanter on the side, turned at the sound of her heels hitting the wooden floor as she came to a _sudden, shocked_ , stop. The Duke raised his eyebrows across at his wife in question as he poured himself a small sip of Ophelia’s favourite sherry. His head was still a _little tender_ , but, _hair of the dog and all that_. And one of Ethel’s fried breakfasts had helped him along _enormously._

“We’re _never_ the first ones down?” She asks him. He smiles as he sups from his glass. She was atleast _twenty minutes overdue._

“Indeed _we are_ , My love…” He smirks. Sipping the last of his drink, standing it down to better embrace her.

“Now, _come over_ here, _you gorgeous creature_ , and _kiss me_ before I get _cross_ …” He leers across at her. She smiles, her cheeks pinkening. He still held the propensity to make her blush like a shy deb in their first season. _And how could she resist? What sane woman could?_

“I’m relieved to see you _so recovered_ , after your ill mishap this morning, _Mrs Adelina_ …” She japes with him, smiling, as she walked closer.

He was leaning against the back of the settee now, crooking her closer with the heat in his eyes, watching her walk across. Eyes clinging to the sway of her ample hips under that dress, _knowing_   the finery of what lay beneath. Those _lovely_ heavy, breasts that _were made_ to fit perfectly into his hands. That _perfect, small_ waist that he could span with the wide stretch of both his hands. And those _soft, rounded_ thighs, slender legs, and _gorgeous hips_ she wrapped around _him, her lover, when he was between them, and pleasuring her intimately._

He loved every _pock, mark, mole_ and _scar_ on _this beauty’s body_. He didn’t _know exactly what_ it was about her during this time that made her _so irresistible_. But, if _he had_ to put his finger on it, he’d say it was the fact that she was carrying _his_ child, and _was positively_ , as the doctor had warned she would be, _voracious,_ for their intimacies _._

_He was only all too pleased to oblige her rampant hormones. They kept up rather well with his own._

She walked quickly, crossing to her handsome, _virile,_ husband, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He smelt of mint, cologne and musk. And his skin was the kind _of soft_ that let her know he had just recently shaved. His hair was slightly brushed back with a little of that peppermint oil that made his hair shine in the low candlelight, and also made him smell _astoundingly alluring_ to her. Now her hormones were in overdrive, she was _hyperaware_ of him. The _heat_ of his skin, his cologne, and _musk_. It made her _head spin_ when he came close. And if he wasn’t _the most_ handsome man on earth, then she _didn’t have eyes_.

He looked thoroughly dashing tonight, bedecked in crisp white tails, and tie. She was relieved to see he looked recovered from his green pallor that had marred his handsomeness just this morning. When she leaned close his hand spread wide on her lower back, and he cups the back of her neck to give her, what he deemed, as a _proper kiss._ One that lasted for eons. And left them with hot hands _seeking more_ of the others body. The kind that left them light headed, with passion bruised lips, and their sexual _appetites wetted_ , and _aching for more_.

Just as she was enamoured by him, he _was twice as so_ by her. She came to him tonight in a cloud of lavender and jasmine scent, and that _uniquely Elizabeth scent_ of her warm skin that followed her anywhere she went. She looked _divine_ in her gown, and it felt soft and pliant under the touch of his hand. He stroked along her velvet skirts, _knowing_ her skin underneath was like _silk_. He liked the sheer fabric covering her shoulders. It made him think back to that one nightdress she owned, the one that was _wickedly_ , unfairly, _transparent_. _The night she had worn it for him, he’d been worried they broke their bed._ She smelled like her. _Like_ _his Elizabeth_.

Some mornings when he had to rise earlier than he cared too, he would dress in silence, trying his best not to wake her. And she would still be slumbering in bed, he would cross to her vanity table, and unstop the small bottle of scent that he watched her dab onto her wrists and neck each morning. He would lift it to his nose, and inhale the essence of her. And smile _like a madman_. _Then,_ he would slip away to go about his business, with her perfume lingering on his mind and senses. _But always,_ before he left her, he would kiss her cheek, _and_ their little lemon over the bedclothes that covered her, and stroke her hair, telling her _how much_ he loved her, and when he’d come home to her side. He loved tonight’s gown on her, it was _sumptuously dark blue_ , and allowed him to admire the flawless scope of her _almost bare_ shoulders.

“You look _as tempting_ as ever.” Thomas smirks to his darling, his hands almost joined on her small waist. Her hands placed flat to his chest as she stood between his parted, long, legs as he leant against the settee.

“I know your, _weaknesses,_ for this _particular kind_ of fabric…” She smiles, taking his chin in her fingers and giving him a solid kiss on the mouth, before pulling back. “What time is your _brother-in-law_ to be, getting here?” She asks him.

“Your mind is a _very_ mysterious thing, My duchess.” He awards her. The little soft skitter and pitter-patter echoing on the wooden floors behind them, let them know that a _great calamity_ was about to befall them all. A calamity who had four paws. Red fur. And a penchant for _chewing_ expensive family heirlooms. Marlowe nudged open the door with his nose, and ran in a puppyish _lollop_ , across to his two owners. Thomas smiled, cooing inane love at his dog, leaning down to scoop the little rascal into his arms. Giving him a kiss on his furry head. Elizabeth smiled down at them, rubbing her dog’s floppy ear.

“He should be here shortly, _so far_ as I know…” Thomas informed her. Letting Marlowe lick his cheek. Iris was remaining here, until her and Hugh’s wedding. Though he was a widower, and she a widow, they had wanted to _be proper_ about the rules of engagement. After the wedding, they had plans to honeymoon on a cottage nestled into the Devon coastline, a Kenworthy family holding in Exmouth. Elizabeth had been surprised to learn that her and Thomas’s Dukedom had houses _all over_ the country. One in Cornwall, Devon, Ireland, and the house in London. Their land holdings were _vast_ , as it was _one of the oldest_ peerages England could boast of.

“I thought this scamp was to be in _the kitchens_ for the time being… for nibbling _that Aubusson_ rug the other day in the green room…” Elizabeth smiles in a chiding manner, as the puppy tried to nip her hands. _Clearly_ , as the kitchen staff were preoccupied with dinner, the little imp had slipped from their sights. Thomas took the puppy under the front legs, his fingers splayed over his back as he held him up high, and let the dog excitedly lick his nose. Cooing love to his dog about what a good boy he was.

“ _Do be careful_. You’ll have _red fur_ all over your tails. _Wheatley won’t thank you_ for _that_. And, on another note, _don’t be surprised_ as to why I don’t _kiss you_ anymore this evening…” Elizabeth supposed with a smile, setting herself down on the settee next to her Duke. Sighing in pleasure as she eased the ache in her poor, tired feet.

Thomas glared over at her before setting Marlowe down on the cushions, and the manic little thing he was, lolloped _straight for_ her lap, rolling onto his back to make sure she paid his belly due attention. She smiles, reaching and cuddling him close, eventually, he settled into a little ball, and lay peacefully on her thighs. _Thankfully_ , not trying to chew her fingers as he usually did.

“Drink?” Thomas asks her, taking a second to admire her profile, lit by fires light, as she cooed and fussed their puppy. It made him think of what it would be like to see her cradle _their new born_ in her arms. Only he knew, however heartening it was to see her tickle Marlowe’s tummy, smiling, laughing, down at him. When it _was a perfect little baby,_ and a gorgeous version of both of them, rolled _into one_ , he knew that he would _never be_ in love with _her more_. He didn’t _know_ how he could love her _more_ than he did at this moment in time, _he just knew_ , she’d find a way to expand on it, and amaze him, _evermore_.

“A little cordial would _be heavenly_ … _Thank you.”_  She smiles. Still wishing to abstain. Though, she was _just coming_ to know how hard it would be to go nine months without _a sip_ of wine. She missed the fruit bouquet of a fine red, the soft velvet of its smooth taste settled onto her tongue. The crisp tang of a white wine _. But_ , she’d stay strong for her lemon. Thomas crossed to the side table and poured her one. Adding the tiniest thimbleful of brandy for her. He walked it back over, and handed it her.

“I put a mere splash of Ophelia’s brandy in there.” He smiles. Seeing her hesitate. “It won’t do _you_ , _or baby, any harm_. I _assure_ you. The doctor said you’re even _allowed a glass_ of wine every week or so.” He adds.

“ _I’d love_ to know why you’re trying to _ply me_ with alcohol. Mr Kenworthy…” She smirks. Eyeing him from the side of her eyes, before she sups the drink back. The brandy tasted sharp, warming and unfamiliar to her tongue. But she loved the _trickle of heat_ it slid down her throat. He chuckles, settling himself down next to her. Leaning close to press a kiss to her jaw, she _tingled_ because of it.

“I’m finding it hard to limit myself _to one_ drink a week, as we had planned. Nine months with not _even one?...._ I cannot _even fathom_ …” He compliments.

“ _Well_. My desire for drink, has been replaced with, _other things.”_  Elizabeth explained, setting down her glass on the side table. When she turned back around, to find her husband was giving her a thoroughly, _passionate,_ look.

 _“Oh, you brazen minx_..” He flirts, winking at her. Tipping a small glass of brandy to his lips. She laughs, suddenly realising the filthy nature of her comment. He watched her cheeks and her chest pinken. _He loved doing that to her._

“I _meant…”_ She began, but he interrupted.

“You’re making me feel _like a stage girl._ Using me for _merely for my whiles, you vixen.”_   He accuses. Faking offense.

“ _I meant_.” She spoke through a laugh. “The nausea, the cramps, the aching, tiredness, mood swings… and, I _could go on_ …” She remarks. Thomas reaches over and grasps her hand. Linking his fingers through her own.

They had experienced the cramps problem the hard way. She had been getting out of bed one night, in the early hours of the morning, she had just stood up, and rounded the bed, when a sharp flare of pain _shot_ through her stomach like a _bolt of lightning_. She gasped, loudly, doubling over, and clutching her stomach. Her mind quickly descending into panic. Muttering pleas, and nonsensical prayers, as she thought she _was loosing her child_.

Thomas was awake _in an instant_. And he was _all over her_ , shirtless, in only sleeping breeches. His hands were soft, calm, gentle with her, guiding her to sit down. Calmly asking her questions, even though she too could see the tears unshed in his eyes, or pure panic, hysteria, that he was going to have to watch her go through and the pain, _or worse, for her to lose their baby_ _right in front of his eyes_ , whilst he stood _helpless._

He sent for Dr. Stanhope _as quickly_ as was possible _._ They waited, that _terrible wait_ , eclipsed in half darkness, and moonlight, and pure panic. Elizabeth crying big fat tears of worry, and Thomas knelt on the floor before her, as he held her close. Hushing sweet whispers into her ears. She held onto him tightly, and he _was thankful_ she did, so she couldn’t see the petrified tears _of his own_ sliding down his cheeks.

The Dr. came and eased both parents into calmness by explaining it was a _perfectly normal_ process for Elizabeth’s body preparing itself for the baby. He listened to its heartbeat and smiled the world’s more reassuring smile. He said it was _hale, sound_ as a bell, and _cooking nicely_. They felt _like fools_ for worrying, but, of course, first time parenthood was like traversing uncharted seas. _Impossible to navigate with security. Perhaps they’d feel different about their second baby,_ Elizabeth found herself thinking. Because she was _certain_ she, and Thomas, didn’t want to stop at one child…

“Have I _apologised enough_ for putting you in a predicament that gives _you pain?”_ Thomas asks. Because though he was elated, it was hurting him very deeply that _she_ was suffering due to a fault that could be labelled as his own. _He should’ve restrained himself,_ he can’t help but think.

“ _Hush,_ you,  _silly, wonderful, man_.” She smiles, reaching over to cup his neck, noting how much he bore an expression that looked like a kicked puppy. “Thomas. We’re having a _baby._ It’s _yours_ , and _mine._ Whatever pains or trifling aches I complain about in this state _pales_ in comparison to that _happy, happy fact_.” She smiles. “And I _will not_ hear of you punishing yourself for the actions that led up to _this..”_ She motioned to her swollen belly, stroking it. “ _Because_ , If I have too, I _will sign_ a _written testament_ , if you need me to assuage your guilt, that I, _hungered_ , for what happens in our marital bed, just _as wholly_ as you.” She flirts.

“Come here and _kiss me again_ , Duchess.” He rasps. Looking sinfully good to her eyes in that moment. His pale, angular face carved by the fires light. His eyes gleaming _bright,_ longingly _burning_ into her skin. Elizabeth makes a ploy of leaning close, before bursting into laughter, her smile fantastic, but her laughter _cruel_.

“Not _a chance in hell._ Now you’ve _had Marlowe_ all over you.” She smiles. Chuckling at his misfortune. He narrows his eyes at her. She winks back.

“Why is it you only flirt when _I cannot_ reciprocate?” He asks.

“I’m _wily_ that way.” She grins. Thomas grunts an affirmative sort of a noise into his glass.

They were interrupted by, _what they would both shortly come to distinguish_ , as _the most odd_ noise they’d ever been privy too. Out in the hallway, beyond the open door, comes an odd sort of cooing, followed shortly by a smacking, clicking noise. The Duke and Duchess frown towards each other. The calamity continues, appearing to draw closer. And _before too long_ , the cause comes into view. It was their astute Butler, ever granite faced, impassive and regal, Wilkin’s.

Only he was shuffling along, clicking his tongue, and making smooching noises, in his hands he held a small piece of cooked ham, and was softly calling out the name of the mischievous dog that currently sat snoozing on Elizabeth’s lap. When he came to the parlour door, he paused, and turned. Aware he had been noticed. He straightened and cleared his throat. Looking as close to alarmed and embarrassed as either of them _had ever_ seen him. It was _the third_ greatest show of emotion Elizabeth had seen him exhibit. _The first_ had been on the day she met him, upon first seeing Chatsworth house, and he had accelerated into an asthmatic fit in her presence, mumbling his mortification between sneezes and wheezes. _The second_ , was when she and Thomas announced her pregnancy to the staff, he had briefly burst into a wide smile, before remembering who he was, and snapping back to being their deadpan Butler once more. Clasping his lordships hand in joy. And bowing to her. And that was it. _He was as unrevealing as stone henge, was Wilkins._

“Anything _the matter_ , Wilkins?” Thomas asked. The Butler in question swallowed in humiliation. They heard the thud of his gulp travelling down his oesophagus from _all the way out_ in the hallway.

“ _N-n-no_. Your Lordship.” He stammered. “Only I was looking for, _the dog. Sir_. I’m very sorry, but I was helping prepare the dining table, and I saw his scarper out of the kitchens, _Sir. Ma’am_. I’m sorry not to have kept a closer eye…I know how _upset_ your Lordship _and_ Ladyship were with his eating the rug in the parlour the other day, and _I_ -” He explained. Thomas smiled at the man. Understanding his vexations. He prided himself on being as resolute as a Bernini statue. He was faltering in his irritation with his actions. The Duke reached over and rubbed the rascal in questions ear. Hearing the puppy snore softly at the caress.

“ _Do stop_ yourself getting flustered, Wilkins. We _will forget_ what we saw. And When you come to announce Dinner, you _may reclaim_ the little beast from us. _You are dismissed_.” Elizabeth smiles. Wilkins looked so utterly relieved on hearing her say those words, and thus with a sharp bow, exits the scene, back to order dinner into punctuality. Thomas chuckled slowly after the man left.

“ _Have a care_..” Elizabeth smiles. “He thinks _all good Butlers_ should be utterly inexpressive.” Elizabeth chides her giggling husband. As he doubled over, wheezing laughter, wiping the tears from his corners of his eyes.

“I _do apologise_. But sometimes I don’t half _wonder_ if the man is _made of metal._ I’m oft tempted to cut him open and see if he has _cogs and wheels_ rather than _organs.”_ Thomas explained.

 _“Please,_ for all our sakes, _don’t saw_ our Butler in half…” Elizabeth smiles gleefully. Glad to see him laughing.

“I fear I’ve walked in at a very _odd point_ in your conversation, Your _Lordship_. Your _Ladyship_.” Came a dulcet greeting from the doorway.

Thomas and Elizabeth turned to see the charming man who was shortly to wed into their family. Hugh stood nervously in the doorway. His hands folded behind his back. Clad in a dark navy dinner jacket, a pressed shirt. With dark breeches and boots on. The way the fabric of his jacket reacted to the light, led Elizabeth to believe that it was velvet. He looked groomed, healthy and handsome, his russet hair brushed back, his seafoam eyes sparkling in the candlelight. A man perched on the edge of marital bliss and harmony. Elizabeth’s face split into a smile, and placing her pup on her husbands lap. She crossed the room to greet her brother-in-law.

“Hugh.” She smiles warmly, greeting him with a kiss to each cheek. “You can dispense with the formal titles. For in two weeks you’ll be _among relatives.”_ Elizabeth points out, watching him pinker lightly in embarrassment.

“Don’t remind me… I’m marrying into _a shocking family_.” He teased to her. She laughed at that jest. She knew Edith and Judith were _bursting with pride_ and impatience to have him as their dear new stepfather.

“You look _happy_ …” Elizabeth notes aloud, her eyes warm with the notion he had found true love with Iris. She really did like him _very much._ She was elated, her heart bursting with happiness for them both, and loving that he was to be her brother in the eyes of England, and God, very shortly.

“I’m _counting down_ the hours. Elizabeth.” He pledges. His hands dutifully behind his back. Thomas, still on the settee, kisses his unruly dog once more, before setting him onto the floor. Standing to greet Hugh. The little pup lolloping over to try and bite at Hugh’s boots. Excited at the newcomer. Hugh fusses him as Thomas crossed to give his greeting. The men shook hands warmly. With brotherly affection. Elizabeth knew Thomas had gone to him regarding the scandal that had so recently divided their house, and marriage. And they were bonded _closer_ , because of it.

“I hope your visit home was fruitful. Me and my wife are hoping you’ve found a priest to _suit you?”_ The Duke asked. Hugh smiled.

“I’m delighted to say we have. _But not_ whom I expected. _My father_ wishes to be the one to marry us..” He explained, as Thomas handed him a small dram of whiskey. Wishing him hearty congratulations.

“That’s _wonderful.”_ Elizabeth beamed. When she was happy, Thomas noted, _it rolled_ off her in waves. Like rays of sunshine. It was infectious and it touched all those she surrounded.

“He didn’t get to _officiate_ the ceremony when I married Catherine. And, him and Iris get _on so_ splendidly. And he just about manages to keep up with Judith, so. in a way, _I’m ashamed_ I didn’t think of him in the first place. Though _he is_ retired now.” He explained.

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter to him _one jot_. And knowing he’s going to wed you to your life’s happiness is enough to make any father _brimming with pride.”_  Thomas interjected. Hugh nods.

“He also dotes _so heavily_ upon Judith, and Edith. Me and Catherine were never blessed, so, in a way they’re gaining two beautiful grandchildren, aswell as a daughter-in-law. Him and mother _couldn’t be more_ elated.” He chuckled.

“I hope they know what they’re _in for.”_ Thomas spoke gravely. Elizabeth smiled at him, peering across at the door, however, she thought she’d better seize _this_ opportunity whilst she could.

“Whilst _I have_ both you gentlemen here, I think _it prudent_ that I relay to you _a certain_ , recent happenstance regarding Edith..” She speaks quietly. Crossing to the door and pushing it shut, so they _wouldn’t be disturbed_.

She invites them both to take a seat, she couldn’t be entirely uncertain one of them wouldn’t _faint_ at her news. She crossed back to them, seeing they both looked equal measures _intrigued_ and _concerned_. She took her seat, composing herself before she broke the news.

“I _think,_ I can’t be certain, but I _think, that_ Edith and William are developing a _téndre_ for one another..” She speaks calmly.

Hugh’s mouth drops open, and his brows _shoot up_ his head. Thomas _nearly snaps_ the glass in his hands to _shards_.

 _“What?”_ Came the bark from her husband. Hugh looked like he was absorbing the news, in a less _ferally protective_ manner than the Duke was, _at any rate_.

“She is of _no age_ yet to be married, _nor_ is she at one to start _courting, boys..”_ Thomas grumped.

Elizabeth could understand his protectiveness. He had watched Edith grow from a babe in arms, to a young woman. It would be hard for him to come to terms with her coming out, into society. To be of _marriageable_ age. To be courted, get engaged, to _be married_. Thomas would always see her as that little niece toddling about Chatsworth, with her first baby book clutched in her chubby toddlers hands.

“And meaning _no offence_ to your excellent relatives, Scotland _is far away,_ and _that boy_ is _far older_ than she is, there is a _six year_ gap between them, _it’s unseemly_.” Thomas growled.

Elizabeth raised her brows wryly. Clearing her throat lightly. “I’ll thank _you to stop_ referring to my cousin William, as _‘That boy.’_ And may I point out, _Pots. Kettles_. Kenworthy..” She reminded him with a dangerous wifely tone. _Suggesting he recalculate his hypocritical statement…_

“Edith is not a pot, _or_ a kettle. She is a _fragile, antique, precious china plate_.” Thomas mumbled.

“ _I hate_ to interject, but, eventually, unless she wishes not too, _Edith will marry_. Isn’t it better she finds a man _we know_ intimately, than one _we do not?”_   Hugh offers up. Elizabeth smiles gratefully at him.

“I _thank you_ for your sensibilities.” She smiles. Turning to Thomas. “And, Thomas, I said they bore _a téndre_ for one another. It may be they have _no more_ than a simple, warm, acquaintance, I didn’t say they were ready _to elope_ to Gretna Green, under cover of midnight, thi _s very eve.”_  She pressed, reaffirming her point. Thomas looked _no less stroppy._

“She’s still _a child_.” He protests. Looking saddened by this stark realisation. His Edie was growing up. Interested in boys, not books. He never thought he’d live to see _that_ day. He wanted to be _old, withered and grey_ , when Edith finally admitted her preference for one over the other.

“ _She was a child_. _Now_ she’s turning into _a young woman_. My dear…” Elizabeth points out. Softly stroking Thomas’s arm. Seeing this had _clearly moved_ him.

“…And she has _many people_ , including us three, and _too many more_ to count, watching after her best interests and her safety. People to love and protect her and _assess any decisions_ she makes that will affect _her future_.” Hugh smiles. That eased Thomas’s fears a little. Though he cannot deny he’d be _more vigilant_ as to the Scot and his niece in question from now on.

“Does Edith _return_ his affections?” Thomas asked her.

 _“Truthfully,_ I do not know. She’s _warming to him_ I suppose. She only _met him_ yesterday.” She eludes.

“Let us not forget that the strongest and _most passionate_ of marriages _can occur, even originate_ from a match with such _scant regard_.” Hugh smiles wryly. Looking at the two of them as he sipped his drink. The Duke and Duchess courted for barely _a month_ in London before they were wed. This was _well travelled_ news. Thomas currently looked like someone could knock him down with _a feather._

“I will _keep my eyes_ on them. Not that I don’t trust the pair. But I just thought as her future stepfather, and _overall protective mother hen_..” She spoke to her husband. “That you should be aware of this…” Elizabeth asked. Thomas frowned at her mother hen comment.

“Edith’s _a sensible girl._ She’s not about to go preening and clucking over the _probable_ affections of a boy alike the nature of my _unfortunate sister_. She is a level headed person. From what I understand of her character, she won’t _let anyone_ sweep her off her feet. She’s guarded, and headstrong.” Elizabeth told them.

“Just what we need. _Another one_.” Thomas smiles across to Hugh. Who smirked back. Though not too much. Elizabeth was an ally, he wanted desperately to keep it that way. He had seen, first hand, what happened when she was an enemy force. _It was a frightening thought to be going against her. .._

“Just _you be nice_ , Kenworthy.” Elizabeth warns. “Or as god, _and an actual Reverend, is_ my witness. I shall name _this baby_ after Sir Carlton.” She threats. Hugh chuckles, they were such a jovial pair. Thomas slumps into his seat. Looking wretchedly defeated.

“Anyone in the market for my former _dignity, and courage_ … step up now.” He mumbles to himself.

“I should have _warned you._ There’s next to _no dignity_ to be had as a governed husband.” Hugh promises the Duke. Who sighed enormously. His eyes meeting Elizabeth’s narrow ones.

“ _What a damned pity.”_ He smirks. Bringing her pale hand to his lips, and kissing the back of it. She couldn’t deny his lips on her skin thrilled her, _greatly. Always_.

Hugh remarked how familiar it was to see them bickering, laughing and japing back and forth again. He really did detest seeing them ripped apart in pain and scandal. _Thankfully_ , that sordid episode was concluded to everyone’s satisfaction.

Footsteps out in the hallway embarked with fierce purpose towards the direction of the parlour. As Elizabeth listened, they both came from different directions. The door was pushed open and the sight beyond it make Thomas’s _jaw clench_. They watched as Edith and William nearly _collided_ into one another at the door, having not seen the other coming. Almost _pressed chest to chest_ , they both leapt back, thoroughly embarrassed.

Edith looked _especially_ pretty tonight. Her wine coloured, velvet dress, with big puff sleeves, and white lace capping her wrists, and around her slightly bared shoulders. Her hair she had pinned back off her face, and she had even borrowed a pair of her Aunt’s pearl earrings, and a matching pearl necklace to sit about her throat.

William was dressed just as divinely. That McKurick tartan draped over his shoulder, secured with a saucer sized broach. Elizabeth can see he had make _no efforts whatsoever_ to try tame his _wild hair_. But he had _tried_ to put the curls away from his face, so that _was something_. He also wore a black velvet jacket, with a grey cravat and white shirt, gleaming brown boots, and black breeches.

The pair of them floundered in the doorway. They’d both stepped back, stuttering, mouths gaped like fish with embarrassment at their _almost_ collision. She smiled uneasily, whereas he twitched a small twitch of a sidewards smile. Scratching the back of his neck _awkwardly_. Before he stretched his hand out, allowing her to be the first one to slide in the room. She bobbed an _discomfited curtsey_ in thanks, before sidling into the room. Her obedient puppy, Brontë, pattering close behind her, hanging close to her skirts as she walked by Edith’s side. William followed after her coming into the room. Marlowe ran full pelt to the attack his sister, and the puppies rolled about as a blur of fur on the carpet. Edith shrugged off her awkwardness and Hugh stood to hug his stepdaughter. They shared a warm embrace.

“I’m _so pleased_ you and Mama are _back safe_ …” She smiles into his shoulder. Smiling a huge grin. He held her back with fondness, cupping her head and kissing her silky black hair. He chuckles at her words. Adoring his loving welcome home. “ _Oh,_ the road from Hampshire _was perilous_ , but we made it _here in safety.”_  He japes.

She pulls back and happily holds his hand. Squeezing it _tight._ No one _would ever dismiss_ her as unloving towards _her stepfather_. William steps into the room, and Elizabeth went to rise to introduce him, but Edith stepped into the fray.

“It’s alright, Aunt, _stay seated_.” She smiles sweetly. Turning to William, she smiles.

“Reverend Hugh Everett, allow me to introduce Elizabeth’s eldest cousin. Mr William McKurick…” She presents. The men exchanged a casual handshake. “Hugh is to be my stepfather in _two short_ weeks, and William and his family take up residence in Alderth Castle, by Kinloch Rannoch near Blairgowrie.” She added thoughtfully.

Hugh assessed the boy in front of him, and watched as his Stepdaughter shared a smile with the shaggy redhead. He could almost _understand_ the Duke’s scepticism on the matter of his niece becoming romantically entangled with the boy. He was almost as tall as Hugh, and built of immense muscle that bulked his shoulders, arms and torso. He was a _strapping figure_ , this William. Arms and legs like thick tree trunks. His body belied his brute strength, and power. But the way he looked at Edith _was all softness_. _And warmth_. _That touched him_ , as her acting Stepfather. He can’t deny they made a _handsome pair._

At hearing her speak so freely about Scotland, Thomas switched his eyes to Elizabeth. Who smiled, and shrugged. He whispered softly to his wife.

“She’s learnt her, _charming thoughtfulness,_ from you. I’ve no doubt.” He speaks lowly. Elizabeth scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out at her husband in an _utterly_ immature manner.

“Blairgowrie.” Hugh repeated. “Near _Pitlochry_ if I’m not mistaken?” Hugh asked. William nodded with a smile. “It is indeed. The _very heart_ of the Scottish highlands.” He adds.

“I’ve _always longed_ to see Scotland. I’ve relatives in Ireland and the country there is wild, green and beautiful. But everyone assures me Scotland is _equally as so.”_

“A trait you share with your Stepdaughter, _Sir_. She too has expressed to me her eagerness to see Scotland. I _beg you_ will come to Alderth and experience it for yourselves one day. I’d love to show you around our family home. Though it’s nowhere near as grand _as this manor_. It’s steeped in our clan history. My mother informs me, I always _leap too readily_ at the chance to show it off.” He smiles, causing a chuckle to echo across the room.

“I can defend you on _that_ matter, _Mac Aoidh_. Alderth is _beautiful._ The finest castle standing in Scotland.” Elizabeth speaks up. William looked suspiciously like he was blushing. In the dim candlelight it was hard to tell. Edith smiled widely at his reaction. The giant, red-headed, muscle, _man mountain_ , blushing shyly and examining his boots in a bashful way because someone paid him a compliment.

They were all joined by yet another relative. And unless they were all very much mistaken, after the short, shuffle of steps. There came a hollow, _clank_. _That short clank_ , signified the impending arrival of one of the _most feared individuals_ in Victorian society that had _ever walked_ this earth. All the Kenworthy’s - and one Everett - were aware of the approaching doom that was _shortly_ to befall them all.

“Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with _hard favour’d rage_..” Thomas spoke for all the room to hear. Edith and Elizabeth tried to swallow their laughs. Hugh snorted into his drink as he sat down. Edith and William sat on separate armchairs near the Reverend. William frowned in confusion. _The poor innocent soul he was._ Edith put his mind _at rest._

“My great, _great, great Aunt_. I fear she has a reputation for being one of the oldest terrors England can _boast of_ …” She spoke lowly.

“That’s an _understatement…”_ Hugh, Elizabeth and Thomas all spoke in perfect, unpractised unison. William nodded, not changing a shade.

“It takes a lot to _scare me_. _Mo Nighean.”_   He smirked to Edith.

“If _you’re not_ heartily prepared, Mac, _she’ll eat you alive…”_ Elizabeth warns, widening her eyes with the threat. Just in time for all of them turned their attention to the doorway, which was darkened by a stooping, old, elderly frame.

Tonight, Ophelia wore a dress of mustard yellow silk, draped about her elderly, bony, frame. Her stockings were a bright, gaudy, pink, and her shoes were some form _of purple_ crocodile skin. Settled around her shoulders, was a wrap of mink, secured with a fat, cluster of a golden diamond broach about her chest, sinking down to her body with the heavy weight of it. Green gloves and hundreds of glinting silver rings were slotted in their usual place in her skeletal fingers. Her elastic hair was in it’s staple strict bun. She surveyed the room with those bottled green  _poison, eyes,_ beady, _calculative_ , sunk deep in her old face. She stabbed her black wood cane into the carpet and let out one of her usual staccato barks. Clearing her throat sharply, she made her clattering, clanking way into the parlour, joining them all. She did a double take at Hugh.

“You _still here_ Reverend?” She asked, raising a pale snowy brow. Her pointed face turned loftily in his direction.

“As _you see_ , Ma’am.” Hugh offers politely with an incline of his head. She surveys the rest of the room. Seeing all was as it ought be. _Apart_ from William. Her beady eyes narrowed at him. And everyone in the room all found themselves holding their breath.

He stared her _square in the face_. His ancestors had seen off _Romans, Vikings and_ the _Redcoats_. One old woman was no match for his _Scottish courage_. Edith’s mouth gaped a little at his bravado. Thomas smiled, one brow crooked, and he found himself _impressed_ by the scot’s boldness.

“ _Evening_.” He susurrated to the old woman in an even tone. She assessed him from head to toe. She watched him rise to a stand, and gesture his hand to the chair he vacated. Again, a brow arched up her pale, colourless forehead. Causing many wrinkles in its wake.

“I suppose you must be a relation of _that one…”_   She sarrced. Pointing to Elizabeth with her cane. Referring with obvious disdain as to his red hair.

“My. _I am_ feeling _so_ cherished…” Elizabeth smiles dryly, looking sadly at her feet. Ophelia’s attention was turned back to the titian _haired giant_ before her.

 “I feel like we might need fetch David here with _his sling_ to _save us all.”_ She mocks, wheezing laughter to herself, trying to belittle him. “Are you really, _that,_ tall?” she enquires. It was her oft employed tactic. Designed to take its _poor recipient_ down a peg or two. He smiles a breathy burst of laughter. Not the _least bit intimidated_.

“Are ye really _that short?”_ He asks. Everyone in the room _almost gasped_. The air was tight with tension. But he _wasn’t done_. “Can’t have you creaking round on those _auld bones_ of yours all night. Have my seat.” He offers. There was a second of terrible silence, as the small, elderly woman narrowed her eyes at the tall, strapping scot. And he narrowed his eyes back. Smiling as genially as he liked.

Eventually, _thank goodness,_ before everyone in the room _turned blue_ from the suppressed constriction of breath. Ophelia burst into _laughter_. She spluttered and her smile grew as she wheezed into sure laughter, slapping her knee as she sunk gladly into the chair. Harrumphing into a smile. “You’re a Highlander, judging by that abominably _foreign tongue?”_ She asks him.

“Well spotted. _Ma’am_.” He smiles. Enjoying the banter he was exchanging with this entertaining old _dragon_. Her stood politely with his hands folded behind his back, warming himself by the fire. Elizabeth sent her cousin a wink, mouthing a ‘ _well-done’_ that was _so richly_ deserved to him. He grinned to that. Edith spoke up  

“Aunt Ophelia, Dowager Countess of Carlisle, this is William McKurick, Elizabeth’s eldest cousin.” She introduces.

“ _Oh, really?_ Thank heavens.” She says, shuffling in the chair. Stabbing and sticking her cane in the rug in front of her feet. Both her bony talons clawed over one another on the arced handle. “For a moment I was afraid he was going to burn the house down _and dance_ around it like a _true_ Jacobite.” She japes kindly.

 _“Ophelia_. Don’t misplace your manners to our Scottish guest..” Thomas warns. Peering over to William. Looking apologetic.  Twirling his index finger in a circle by his temple to elude as to her _batty state_ of mind. William smiled, gently shutting his eyes, showing them that he didn’t mind.

“Age cannot _wither her_ , nor custom stale her _infinite variety_.” William spoke back in a cutting retort. Ophelia yapped with laughter again.

“Antony and Cleopatra. _Very good_. Though is isn’t one of _my favourites_ …” She explained.

“And purely _for your information_ , There _hasna’ been_ a Jacobite in _my clan_ since _1748_ , _Dowager_.” He informs her. Grinning.

“Well, _that’s_ a comfort I must say, we may sleep safe in our beds knowing that a bloody revolution will not fall down _upon our heads.._. and may I say, _I’m so relieved_ that Shakespeare managed to make it past the Scottish border. I think _no one is_ decently educated, without being able to _recite Shakespeare by heart_ …” She decided, idly sniffing, relaxing back in her chair.

“I imagine _Macbeth_ isna’ a favourite of yours, _your grace?”_ He asks. Ophelia gave him a beady look.

 _“On the contrary_ , that one _is_ my favourite. I _hugely admire_ Lady Macbeth.” She grins salaciously.

“ _Wonder why…”_ Edith spoke under her breath.

More noises out in the hall signified the arrival of more relatives. Tiny pattering footsteps ran full pelt toward the parlour, and the door swung open. In a split second Hugh was suddenly _attacked_ by a small, nightie-clad Judith. Who hauled herself onto his lap for a cuddle. A weary Iris appeared in the doorframe not seconds later, trying quickly to tidy her hair. Her gown was one of teal silk that brought out the excellence of her grey eyes. With sapphire earrings glittering jovially in her ears. Her cheeks were rosy, having tried to catch up with her little _imp_ of a five year old. She sighs. Trying to correct her appearance. Straggling coal hued hair decorated her nape, and forehead.

“I’m _very sorry_ , but I think I must introduce you to _my sister_ also…” Edith turned to William. Her face looking pinched. He smiled warmly, one elbow leaned casually on the mantel, his hand playing with the decorative silver ring on his hand, stamped with the McKurick family crest. “I’d meet _Satan himself_ if you teld me he was your relative. Miss Everett.” He flatters. His eyes warm as he looked at her. She was sure her cheeks flushed to her hairline _at that._

She rolled those bluey silver eyes over at Ophelia. “I’m not entirely _uncertain you haven’t_.” She jests. He shares a laugh with her.

“I’m so sorry for my lateness.” Iris sighs to the room. Trying to catch her breath. “Judith wished to see Hugh _most ardently_.” She explained, crossing to sit down by her beau, it was then she noticed William stood near Edith.

“ _Mother,_ may I introduce Elizabeth’s cousin.” Edith began. William stepped forwards and kissed the back of Iris’s hand. “William McKurick. Lady Kenworthy. _It’s a pleasure_.” He smiles. Those cats eyes wrinkle at the corners. Iris blinked, he was a very brawny, broad man. But he held her hand so gently, and looked so unassuming _, kind,_ when he smiled so warmly.

“Mr McKurick. _Of course_ , I’ve heard _delightful things_ from Elizabeth about you, and your family. You hail from _Alderth Castle?”_ She asks, seeking if she was correct upon the matter.

“ _Aye_ , we do. And if my Cousin has been telling ye delightful things about _me_. She mustha be talking about the _wrong cousin_.” He confirms. Watching her laugh.

He could see why this kindly woman and the Reverend were suited, they were humble, respectful people. They remembered important facts about an _almost stranger_. If that didn’t clue him in on the biggest aspect of their character, he knew _not what_ would.

Iris settled on the settee, near her daughter and beside her beau. Who was currently hugging the most exultant five year old on his lap. She was squeezing the _stuffing out_ of Hugh. He was holding her back, as she gabbled about her day to him. Even though she’d only parted company with him _five hours previous_ when he took himself home to the Vicarage. Mac watched the man’s spare hand reach for his betrothed. And Iris slid her hand into his as he spoke to Judith. They joined fingers, almost _without_ having _to think about it._ William fiddled with his ring, and couldn’t help his eyes but drift across to Edith’s lap, where her pale hand lay resting on her red skirts. He averted his eyes. As the little imp turned her attention to Edith. Leaping into her sisters lap, with a cry of _“ED!”_ as Edith tucked the little one into her lap, up to her hip as her sibling gave her a hug.

“I missed you _too, Judith_.” Edith smiled. Judith looked curiously over to William. Shyly blinking her big, owl sized, blue eyes up at him. Her butter blonde hair tied into a ribbon, but some of it fell into her eyes as she blinked wearily up at the Scot.

“You’re _very tall_.” She assessed in her very five year old way. Cautiously looking him up and down. As if he’d pounce at any minute. William softly smiled down at the sweet girl.

“It’s cause I _eat all_ my green vegetables like my mother _tells me.”_ He winked. Judith grinned in amusement. Iris smiled across at the Scot. She liked this boy _very much_ already.

Edith chuckled. “You must _be sick_ of hearing that proclamation being levelled at you, _tonight.”_ She surmises. William shrugged in good nature.

“I’m beginning to feel _sorry for you,_ _Mac_. Being pummelled and dissected at every turn.” Hugh spoke up in the mans defence, wincing for him. His eyes swivelling briefly to Ophelia.

“I’ve thick skin. I can _take it, and what more,_ serve it _back. Sir_. I’m not exactly cursed with a sensitive constitution.” He smiles in assurance with the Reverend. Williams eyes turn to Ophelia as he distinctly heard her murmur a _“That’ll come in handy in our civilised society”_ under her breath from her position across the room in her armchair.

“Is that a _sword?”_ Judith asked. Her eyes wide, glittering with interest. William looked inside his boot, to see the handle of his sgian dubh was visible to her gaze.

“No’ a sword. More of _a letter opener_ really. _Deadly sharp_ though..” He promises in a merry growl.

“Can I _hold it?”_ She asks sweetly.

There came a resounding, quick and sharp “ _NO!”_ echoing around the room. From Hugh, Iris, Edith, Thomas _and_ Elizabeth combined. Judith stuck out her lower lip in a disappointed pout. William crouched to his knees, which clicked as he did. Coming down to be level with the girl

“Tell ye _what_ …” He smiles, narrowing his eyes cunningly. “Why don’t ye come and let me show you how to hold a _claymore_ , on the lawn, tomorrow? We can use a _very, very blunt_ one, and I can teach you how to use a _broadsword, seeing as your so keen.._.” He offers. Judith practically _brims over_ with excitement. Her tiny smile was the _sweetest_ thing William had ever seen.

“I _hope_ you know what you’ve let yourself _in for…_ ” Edith warns.

“It’s like _ye said_ , Sassenach, no gently bred young lady should be without the means of which to defend herself.” He parroted, using her own words against her.

“It will, quite literally, be _your funeral_.” She informs him. “Judith _doesn’t do_ taking orders..” She promised.

“ _We’ll see_ …” William smiled cunningly at her, over Judith’s buttery head. She blushed back at him, _beaming_.

Evermore, a noise sounds out in the hall, and many pairs of feet thumping, galumphing, along the floorboards, lets everyone know the rest of the McKurick clan was shortly to join them all.

“That’ll be _your famil_ y, William.” Iris asks him. He smiles at the genial woman. “Aye.”

Ophelia startled in her seat, looking flustered and wide eyed.

“Good gracious. You mean there’s _more of_   _them?_ ” She asks in panic. William enjoyed her flustering like a stressed hen.

 “ _All seven_ of them. Dowager. Seven _tall, broad, redheaded Scots_. My _Four brothers_ , sister, _and_ my parents…” He tells her, hoping to shock her.

“ _Well,_ If they all have _your stature_ we may need to poke _holes in the roof_ in order for them to be able _to stand comfortably_.” She suggests in jest. William fights off a laugh. For that would be admitting _weakness_. He instead savours her very demurely shocked expression as his family came into the room to make introductions. There was an uproar of voices as everyone mingled. Ophelia looked _most put out_. Edith took a second to whisper across to William as he stood by the mantel once more.

“I think _she’s very fond_ of you.” She offers. He raises his brows.

“That was, _fondness?”_ He asks incredulously. _That had been like going into battle_

Edith smiles, and he savours her beautiful smile. “That’s _Ophelia for you_.” Was her uncomforting answer.

 

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

After a delightful, not to mention, _rowdy,_ dinner. The Duke and Duchess retired that night with full bellies, and smiles on their faces of their happy family. They are two tired to indulge in intimacies tonight, so they admit defeat to their tiredness, and _sleep_. They cuddle close and let their slumber take them. Elizabeth curled into her husbands hold, as he stroked her hair as they merrily drifted off, she relished in burying herself into his naked chest.

It was the soft blue twilight that Elizabeth woke up too. Easing to the edge of the bed, her husband’s arm _flops_ off her. Her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, she stumbles, bleary eyed to relieve herself. Once she is done, she walks back through from the powder room, heading for bed. As she passes the window, she glances out of it, and she has to do a double take. In the clear, bright night, her mouth _gapes in terror._

Thomas was being shaken awake. He growled and frowned at the feeling of his wife’s small hands hooking into his skin, shaking him relentlessly. Only when his ears attuned to her voice, did he recognise the fear, panic, in her voice. He opens his eyes, coming into focus, he sees his wife’s _petrified face_  as she was hovering over him in the dark, her curtain of curly hair about her scared face. He sits bolt upright, and she takes his arm and drags him to the window, her stomach was in _her mouth_ , and her heart felt like it was now beating in _her ears._ When they come to the window, affording them a clear view of Chatsworth land, he looked at the view he’d seen a thousand times before, only when he did, his stomach knotted tight.

He could see the tell-tale shape of Chatsworth’s chapel in the far off distance, beyond the wood. The dark hulk of it looking the same as it always did.

Only now, he could see the glow of orange flames curling from its under its roof, licking upwards into the night sky. Spewing putrid black smoke to the heavens. _Hugh._ His brain spits out.

“ _Wake everyone.”_ Thomas ordered to her sharply, as she pulled on a gown. “I want every a _ble bodied man_ in this house, out there, _now.” He growls_

 

~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugh asked The Marquis of Renford to come to his wedding, as he owed him so much for what he did for his family. The Marquis accepted instantly, stating he'd be delighted to attend. Asking if the woman with the rosetti hair, and elegant neck would be there. Hugh was very puzzled by that answer.


	118. Fires, Rescuers, and Accidents...

 

 

Chatsworth house was in uproar, and Elizabeth _hated_ the sight, and feeling of it being so. Thomas turned into a _strict_ totalitarian, ordering everyone to their posts. The party they roused at such a late hour consisted of _all_ her male cousins - _even Hamish_ \-  she had to fight _tooth and nail_ persuading Thora, and Agnes to stay behind. The grand foyer was lit by sparse candlelight, and the mood is sour in the air, as everyone rushed about. The stable hands, and the more brawny footmen are summoned too, and the large party was just heading out the door. Everyone looked ghoulish, like haunted spectres, in the half moonlight, half lantern lit darkness.

Agnes, and Thora were stood on the stairs, huddled close,  wrapped in shawls, as was Iris, who was stood, comforting an _inconsolable, crying_ Judith, on her hip. All looking _cloaked in agony_ at the news. 

Elizabeth, was holding both Iris and Judith close, rubbing Iris’s shoulders, soothing her. Wrapped in her own ivory nightgown, and golden shawl. Her coiled hair spilled down her back, as she didn’t _dare take the time_ to tie it up. The men were just heading out of doors, cutting through the woods to the west of the lawn to get to the vicarage quickly. It was madness to think it had only taken a mere _few minutes_ to wake and gather everyone.

Elizabeth turned, catching her husbands eye through the throngs of men who started quickly out of the terrace doors, down across the lawn. They all turned into dark, broad shapes out in the night. A Trail of dark, clad figures, lit by the orange glow of lanterns, cutting a rushed path across the gardens.

She slides apart from her relatives, coming across to him. He was _uncommonly_ dressed for this _uncommon_ situation. Clad in a cotton shirt undone to his sternum. Dark breeches and boots, and his great grey overcoat swathing his tall frame. Clothes hastily pulled on in darkness for to deal with this _tragic_ emergency.

Her stomach was in knots as she came close to him. He could _barely_ _spare a moment._ This she knew. She _grasped_ for his hand, and he leaned in to touch his forehead to press against her own. _Grounding himself._ His breath still ragged. Bringing his hand to her lips, she kissed it, before pressing it to her midriff, so he could feel the bump. And when she speaks, her voice betrays her fear. It _breaks,_ and _cracks. And tears_ gather _quick_ in her eyes.

“You come _home.. to us,_ Thomas Kenworthy. _You come home.”_ She cries in a plea for him not to place himself in danger. A tear streaking down her cheek, her lower lip trembling.

He clutches her cheek. And _nods_ , shutting his eyes in bliss as he kissed her hair, inhaling her, and then _he is off._ The whispering brush of his hand leaving her body makes another tear come. She watches him leave her, her hands drifting off him as he goes, dropping slowly to her sides as he strides away to keep up with the rest of the party. She gasps a shuddering inhale. _Aching_. Grasping her shawl about herself so tight, it acted as _the only thing_ holding her together.

Quick footsteps scatter behind her, and she turns to see a flustered housemaid, Hannah, looking like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Clutching onto her cap so it didn’t fall off her head as she held her skirts aloft. Her eyes were frenzied and she was dewy from running. Her hair mussed.

“Begging _your pardon, Ma’am_. But Miss Edith _isn’t in_ her room, and her _beds still warm_.” She pants. Her chest rising and falling in fear. Elizabeth’s blood paused, turning to _ice_ in her veins

She clutched Hannah’s hand. Muttering a shocked thanks to the girl. The Duchess turns, unsure of what to do, Iris clapped a hand over her mouth crying out god’s name in vain, more tears rushing from her eyes. Elizabeth tears for the terrace doors, pushing them open. She had an eerie feeling she _knew exactly where Edith was intending to go_

She runs as fast as she is able, skirts sailing, hair flying, her skin prickling like needles pushing up her skin in the cool of the summer night. She comes to the terrace, and flattens her hands to the concrete banister that led to the steps overlooking the lawns. Her chest heaving. Her eyes search the dark of the woods, the clump of tree’s cloaked in starlight before her. Her eyes strain for a figure. _Edith knew the quickest way to the chapel was through the dark of the woods._ She was so enamoured of Hugh, the second she saw the fire, she would have run out there _without any_ smidgeon of regard for her _safety whatsoever._

Her heart bursts in her chest when she see’s a white clad figure darting through the trees. Clutching her skirts up to run. It was too _far away_ for her to make out her hair colour. _But she simply knew it was Edith_. She tries calling for her, her voice a terrible, croaking, shout.

She feels Iris come beside her looking out for her daughter. “ _Oh, Edith.”_ Iris sighs in a cry. “She’s gone _out there_ for Hugh’s sake.” She adds. Crying more. Thora stood at the terrace doors inside the house, hugging Judith. Agnes looking as worried as Elizabeth had ever seen her. The Duchess turned to her aunt. “I’m going to go _fetch her back_..” Elizabeth promised. Thora nodded. “We’ll watch the _bairn. Go.”_  Her Aunt instructs in a tumultuous voice. Tucking her shawl tight, she flew for the concrete steps, heading down them. But Iris tugged on her hand.

“ _Elizabeth_ , my brother will have _yours and my head_ if _you go_ …” She tries to warn. But even she knew the threat of incurring the Duke’s ire would _not stop_ the woman. _It wouldn’t even make her falter in her stride._

“She is putting herself in danger, and I _will not allow_ that.” Elizabeth pledges lowly. Iris looked afraid. _But_ she wet her lips and _found_ her courage. “Then I’m _coming with you.”_ She promises.

Both women nod to the other, and start down the steps, coming to the lawns, they cover them in quick time, both able to hear the others breath raggedly come from the exercise. Their slippered feet pounding the grass as they ran, when they came to the ice cold shelter of the woods, the orange blaze beyond illuminated the night to be half ochre, half midnight ink. Ahead of them, as they’d made quick ground, they could see Edith running full pelt through the trees. The party of men hadn’t gotten to this part of the woods yet, they had taken the unbeaten track, running across pure wilderness. Elizabeth felt her night dress snag on twigs, she felt the harsh kiss of leaves stinging her ankles, but uncaring if she ran through nettles she soldiered onwards, Iris _but a step_ behind.

Elizabeth’s eyes adjust quickly to the dark, and the dark shadows lingering beyond the trees looked terrible, and foreboding. She struggled for breath, due to her fast pace, her lungs starting to _sting_ with the inhalation of _acrid_ wood smoke that hung like bitter acid in the air. The terrible burning, charred smell filling her body with each gulp of breath she took.

Her eyes were starting to waver, going dizzy, dancing with light, and lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. _She isn’t sure she sees it,_ it could’ve been her frantic mind playing tricks, but she thinks she sees a, scarlet coated, _tall_ figure in the distance, _an unfamiliar one_ , meld back into the shadow of the trees.

She doesn’t let it _deter her,_ and she continues after Edith. Both Aunt, _and_ Mother shouting her name, to reckless abandon.

 

~

 

She had fallen over on her path several times, she had scraped hands, bruised knees, and she was sure she was bleeding from the ankle. Her hands stung with the bitter kind of pain that let her know she had muck and mud, grit, lining her wounds from many tumbles to the forest floor. Her chest was squeezed so tightly in on itself in panic, it was if she was laced into the worlds most _restricting corset._

She had to see if her stepfather was alright. As soon as she had heard bells tolling in her sleep, that roused her, and when she peered out of the window, she didn’t even spare a second to pull on proper shoes. She was out of bed, running through the halls, and headed for the woods. She didn’t even pull the terrace door _shut_ behind her. She sprinted for all her _life was worth._ The icy night air filling her lungs as she ran. She knows that when her uncle gets hold of her, he’d _shake some sense_ into her _stupid_ head for her being out of doors at this hour. But she cared _very little for the repucussions_ of her actions _._ This was a circumstance which was an _extraordinary_ one.

She is just into the woods when she hears a bellow of her name echoing, being called, ringing into the night. _She ignores it,_ slipping over, landing with a pained cry as she twisted her ankle. The bones grating with a _red-hot_ ache of pain that led her to believe the damage was substantial. But she _heaves_ herself up, and onwards she runs. She could see the Vicarage come into view before her, the back of the house facing her, the house, _thankfully_ , was fine.

She turned her attention to the reason she was here. The side of the chapel, she can see the large stained glass windows full of fire. Smoke crackling, spitting up skywards. The flames from inside, curl up under the overhang of the roof. Some figures are in a chain of people in front of the inferno, black silhouettes among the jagged teeth of gravestones, passing pails of water down the line from the water pump on the Vicarage lawn.

Her hands ring with _terrible_ pain when she pressed her hands to the concrete of the graveyard wall, and she _hauls_ herself over it. Her ankle stabbing with pain as she lands. Her worried eyes scan the crowds for the tall, lean figure of her stepfather, she coughs, pressing the back of her hand to mouth as the _acrid scratch_ of smoke _fills_ the back of her throat. She never realised what a _sweet blessing_ fresh air was before now. _She’d never take it for granted again._

With her muddy skirts clinging to her legs, she calls for her stepfather. _“HUGH?”_ She cries out, coughing as the intake caused her a lungful of smoke fumes, her voice wobbling. No one even _turns_ in her direction, she recognises them as tenants, farmhands, and villagers from nearby. _They’re all too focused on their task_. All of them helping to try and douse the flames that raged, hungrily eating away the wooden foundations of the stone chapel without a care.

She stumbles closer, heading round for the doors. Coughing more as the putrid smoke settled at the back of her mouth. She is suddenly _viciously_ spun round, to find her mother, _and_ her aunt before her, panting just as much as she was. Iris’s grip on her daughters wrist _pinched_ her skin, but it is _not_ anger she finds on their faces.

Elizabeth’s heart breaks to see Edith, muddied, bloodied and scratched, and _all_ in the service to see if _her relative was alright._ Iris collapses her daughter into a hug, and more shouts echo in the air, Elizabeth see’s her cousins, Tammas, and Rabbie, run to fetch more pails. When another figure stalked close to them, she was suddenly face to face with a _very irate_ looking husband.

“I _told you_ to stay in the house…” He starts. His voice lethal. His eyes ablaze, echoing the flames before them. Switching back from sister, to wife.

 _“Go, back home. NOW. All of you,_ this is _no place_ for you. If I have to tell this to you again, Elizabeth. I _will throw you_ over my _goddamned_ shoulder and take you back there myself. _Do you want that?”_ He spits protectively. Growling, snarling. Elizabeth knew he was more _scared_  for them, than _angry_ , with them.

“It’s _my fault_ …” Edith chimed up. Stood looking small, and heartbroken. Her nightie sliding off  one shoulder. Her face marked with soot and tears. Thomas tilts his head in a way that looked most dangerously displeased.

“They came after me…” She holds out. _“Go back home_. _All_ of _you._ ” He orders. His eyes landing on his wife, vitriol filling his face, before he marches past them all to help.

“Darling, _we’re going back._ _Now_.” Iris tells her obstinate daughter. Trying to tug her back in the direction of Chatsworth, towards the woods. Edith rips her wrist away.

“Aren’t _you worried about him_ , Mama? _He could be in there?”_ Edith screeches, her voice scratched. Iris gives her a teary eyed look of fury. Her arm jerking to the chapel behind them. Edith turned around sharply, as the roof caving in sent sparks drifting up in the sky, and people recoiled from the flames that _swallowed_ the roof into the fiery void. The building _creaked and cracked._ Splintering, smouldering still. The flames were _high_ , climbing up along the wooden beams on the inside of the roof.

“Don’t tell me to worry about him. Because if I _start to let myself worry,_ Edith, I will fall to my knees sobbing and I don’t think _I’ll ever recover_.” She tells her daughter. “ _I love him too_. _More than_ there are _stars_ in the heavens, don’t _you dare think I don’t._ But if he knows you put yourself in peril for his sake. _He’ll be furious.”_ Iris speaks, making _the most_ moving, angry speech Elizabeth had _ever seen._ _Shaking_ her shoulders to _force_ the words into her.

It had the _intended_ effect, it seemed to sober Edith up a fair bit. She nods, and collapses into her Mother’s hold sobbing, mumbling her excuses, saying she had to know if he was alright. Elizabeth soothingly rubs Irises back, stepping forwards, her heart sinking low at the sight of the once _beautiful_ chapel engulfed in fire. The roof sagged and caved in, flames streaking up the broken windows. _Was there a sorrier sight than a burning building_ _as fire unapologetically tore through it_.

She watched her husband, near the doors with her cousins, trying to target the heart of the fire. She turns, intending for the ladies three to head back. She too, scans the crowd for Hugh, her body twists into knots when she still can’t discover him. And then, she hears the most terrible sound in the world. It was muffled by the roar of flames, the din of the people helping put the fire out. But from inside the blazing church. There comes a man’s cry _for help_. Wailing through the cracking smoke and smouldering wood splitting.

Iris falls to her knees, looking haunted as she cries. _Her worst fear realised before her eyes. Hugh was in there._

Edith went down with her, But unable to be still, she takes one look at the blazing building, and darts towards it, her dress flying behind her. _She was going into the chapel,_ Elizabeth realised with fear. Before her instincts could kick in, she was _too far_ now for her Aunt to reach and _grab_ her back.

 _“EDITH! NO! EDITH!”_ Elizabeth calls, her throat raw. Eyes streaming.

Thomas whips around at her shouting.  Seeing his distraught niece ready to throw herself _into flames_ for the Reverend trapped within the church. The door was wide open, there was no one around to stop her. He swallows, his eyes widening when he heard another shout come from inside. He _hadn’t heard the first_ , being too close to the flames, muffled the sound reaching his ears. But right now, all he could focus on was _stopping his niece._

She sprinted up the gravel path to the open doors. The sickly scent of hot hollyhocks perfuming the air along with the acrid scratch of smoke. She _doesn’t_ hear someone running to catch her from behind, their feet skidding on the gravel. But she does _feel it_. _Especially_ when two broad, _strong_ , hands wrap around her, grabbing _a fistful_ of her clothes, hauling her back _so fast_ , it almost ripped her night dress off her.

She fights _whomever_ it was holding her, but when the scent of moss and heather soap drifts over her, _she knows_.

She fought his hold like a _feral wildcat_. Feeling his ample muscles clench about her. William had her by the waist, one arm fully around her, like a belt. Her body pressed into his torso, her thighs pushing into the strong trunks of his, straining to keep her still. She clawed at his almost bare arms.

 _Determined. Wriggling, fighting_. Crying her heart out. His other arm was across her chest now, pressing her breasts flat to his arm, her back arches, but she feels his _hot breath_ at her ear through her hair, talking, soothing, _trying anything to calm her_.

Her rear was pressed tight into his front. Their chests raggedly panting in time with one other’s. She felt the scratchy tartan of his kilt on the backs of her knees. He almost had her swept off her feet the way she was struggling _so ardently._

“Stop it. _Mo Nighean_. Stop it, _Stop_ now.” He commands softly, pleading with her. Feeling her wriggles die down. His voice was soft, even though his hold was like _iron_  

She is _too weak_. He is _too strong,_ wrapped around her. She _can’t_ take it any longer, she lets herself sob, her head hanging down, _grief wracking through her_ like it _could break her bones._ William feels her sag in his arms, and hears the terrible sound of her crying.

He stops holding her like she was a prisoner trying to escape. She turns around. Slumps into his chest, letting him hug her, and she sobs _inconsolable tears._ He was wearing a cotton night shirt on his strong, impossibly broad torso, that felt dreamily soft under her hands. His skin was _hot_ , and she finds her face buried in a patch of bare skin by his neck that the gap in the shirt bore. The hot, clean, earthy scent of his sweat, his skin, under her nose as she wet his neck with her tears. _He_ _let’s her cry_. Stroking her hair, holding the entirety of her skull under the cradle of one of his big hands. In a different circumstance, he would d _enjoyed_ having her in his arms. _But not like this. He hesitates for a second. Before he rests his chin on the top of her silky hair._

 _”I’m here. Sassenach. I’m here. Dinna cry. Everything will be ok. You going in there and gettin’ hurt I won’t stand for. You hear? Mo Nighean. Now, you’re a brave, brave lass, but_ you running into _those flames will only cause yer family grief if you don’t come out._ You just. _... keep safe_ here _with me.”_ He hushes into her ear. Stroking her head still. Keeping his mouth in her hair. He hugs her tighter. Holds her lovingly.  

Back across the graveyard, Thomas was relieved to see Edith was safely ensconced in Williams arms, as he held her tight, away from harm. The Duke stared straight ahead into the flames. Between the chapel doors, the orange blazed looked like a _portal to hell._ He took a deep breath, his lungs full of _fear_ and _smoke._ He shrugged off his coat.

Iris had lost one husband to tragedy that he could’ve prevented. _She wasn’t losing a second where he could do something about it. Hugh was his friend. He’d have liked to think the man would do the same for him._

Everyone gasps in _horror_ as the Duke of Chatsworth held his shirt over his mouth, and _darted_ into the burning chapel. Elizabeth watched him do it, steadying herself, one hand to the nearest gravestone. It was like being hit, _hard_ , in the stomach to see him go in.

_All breath and strength in her body tugged out from under her._

Tears were streaming down her face. As her eyes were _glued_ to the chapel doors. One idle thought whirring round her terrified mind. _Please, please, god, don’t let me have to bury my husband, or Hugh, in this graveyard. Over and over_ it circulates in her head.

She thinks she may have _stopped her ability_ to draw breath, and she stares at the orange flames until her eyes sting, for what feels like a _very terrible decade_ s worth of time she stares. Watching the flames grow higher, she prays.

 _She prays so hard_ she can feel herself _shaking._ It must have been _atleast ten_ minutes since Thomas went in there…

Her heart _soars_ when she see’s figures stagger out, smoke billowing out over them. She can make out a stout, male, figure she wasn’t familiar with, being guided out by a taller, leaner man. _Hugh_.

The both of them coughing and spluttering. The lean one leads the stout one out onto the lawn, where they flail gracelessly to the lawn. Her feet start to walk her closer to the chapel doors, before she can _stop herself._   As she gets closer, she can see with relief, that the stout man she didn’t know, was in fact, Sampson, Hugh’s Verger. He lived in the small quarters that abutted the Vestry, maintaining the grounds and church. The man looked drowsy, _barely awake_. Probably due to the amount of smoke he’d inhaled.

Elizabeth runs to them, crashing down on her knees in the wet, dewy grass, she inspects Hugh, who was arched over his friend, His back and head bowed. His clothes strewn with smoke. He lifts his head, and pants regarding her. She touches his shoulder, and her smiles _thankfully_. He coughs. His mouth was as dry as a bone, trying to speak, it was no more than a _rasp_. Strained by smoke and shouting. “I don’t _know if he’s breathing_ …” He rattles in a frenzied, worried gasp.

Elizabeth turns to the Verger, and tucking her hair out of the way, pressed her head to his chest, she focuses hard, and then, blessedly, hears the _whump-whump_ of his heartbeat echo from within his ribs. She closed her eyes and sighed a smile. Sitting up and nodding at Hugh, who collapsed onto his knees.

“He’s unconscious. Smoke inhalation, _I think_ is the culprit here…” She diagnoses. Hugh nods. “He’ll _be ok?”_ He asks. Elizabeth nods, she reaches for a nearby pail of fresh water. She rips a strip off the bottom of her gown, dips it in, and presses the water soaked cloth to the Portly man’s mouth.

His face was sooty and dirty. And his mouth was chapped from the dry heat. She repeated the action, three times, seeing she was rewarded when the man finally spluttered into consciousness. Wheezing hacking coughs, as he lay on the grass. His hooded eyes stung as he opened them, and he was, quite rightly, dazed. Elizabeth smiled down at him, shuffling to realise her dress where her knees stabbed into the ground, were dirty, in the wet grass. She smiled down at Sampson. 

“Y- _Your Ladyship_?” He wheezes, confusedly. Trying not to appear too mortified that a member of the gentry was kneeling in the mud, in a see-through nightgown, to _help him._

“ _It’s alright_. Mr Sampson. You’re going to _be alright.”_ She smiles. A tenant from the village must have roused medical help, as she saw Doctor Willis striding their way. She moves aside so he can be tended too properly.

Hugh stayed knelt where he was. _Filthy_ , _covered_ in soot. _Reeking_ of smoke. But, he wasn’t to be given a peaceful reprieve, Iris staggered to him, and he leapt up to hold her. Clutching her close, she cried into her fiancés arms. Not a second later, Edith did the same, after William saw them come out of the flames, he set her down and she ran _straight_ to her family. Hugh, _uncaring_ for the way he stunk of smoke, and the fact he could _barely_ stand, it didn’t bother him. He hugged _both his girls_ tight all the same.

Elizabeth stayed knelt, her mouth gaped in _utter relief_ as she saw the lean figure of her husband, darken the chapel doorway, and he too, lurched out of the chapel, she could hear him wheeze and cough. The putrid smoke strangling his lungs and choking his airways. He steadied himself against the stone porch, taking in deep lungfuls of clean air, his back arched, chest heaving.

He looked about, searching, wiping his soot strewn face on his dirty shirt sleeve. He saw her, and headed for her. Elizabeth stood, coming to her feet. Balking at the sight of him, she crosses _quickly_ to meet where he headed. She could see tears carved down his angular, sooty cheeks, His shirt looked almost _grey_ rather than the pristine white it had been. Their bodies collide together and he holds her _tight_ , as if _he’d never_ let her go, _ever again._ Her arms go about his shoulders. One of his hand cups her head, the other about her back. Moaning a _guttural sound_ as he held her. Keeping her close as he breathes into her hair. Inhaling the subtle scent of her perfume that he could detect beyond the smoky scent surrounding them.

They both stank to _high heaven_ of wood smoke now. _But he didn’t care._ It took him a minute to register that her shaking in his arms was his wife crying into him.

 _“Thank god. Oh, thank god.”_ She sobs against his neck. Tugging her fingers through his hair. _Checking he was real under her touch._ Crying tears that stung her eyes. She takes him in, screwing her eyes shut to stem her tears. Thankful to every blessed thing that he was to _be fine._ They pulled apart and she goes to scold him but she can’t _bring_ herself too.

 _He’d gone in there, braved fire and death, to rescue Hugh and Sampson. And how could she be incensed at that?_  She settles with idly swatting his shoulder with her hand when they stand apart.

“If you _hadn’t_ have made it out _alive Thomas Earnest Wolfgang Kenworthy,_  I _promise you this now,_ I would have _cursed your name, every day,_ until the day _I myself_ am in a wooden _box_.” She informs him. Seeing that made him wheeze into a cough that could have been laughter. He tugs her close again, kissing her solidly on the mouth.

“Of that… _I’ve, no_..doubt..” He pants as he pulls away. She leads him to the nearby, low stone wall, sitting him down on it, bringing her shawl around him before he grew cold. She had a dressing gown, she would be alright to brave the cold without it. She loops it around him, and they are joined by her young cousin Hamish, who was doing the rounds with a pail of water, and glasses, handing the singed Duke, a glass of much needed water.

“ _Thankyou_ Hamish.” She smiles, taking it, and gently tipping it to her husbands lips. He felt the cool of it soothe his dry mouth, and parched lips. If he drank much more, he feared he’d _be sick._ She pulls it back.

“Slow sips, or you’ll make _yourself ill_.” She tells him. Stroking a hand down his back.

He suddenly felt so very _tired_ , where she stood, he slumped into her for support. She steadied herself. Letting him rest his head half on her shoulder, half on her chest  

“Are ye _alright, Sir_?” Hamish asked, owlishly blinking at him. He was her very youngest cousin, and as such, his voice hadn’t _even broken_ yet. He was still blessed with a child-like Scottish brogue. Thomas chuckled at the boy, taking the glass in a weak, soot covered hand, from his wife, drinking a little more, as he felt able to.

“To be honest, Hamish, I feel _little bit like a leg of pork_.” _Smoked_. He jests, his voice was gruffer than usual. This caused Hamish to grin, before he tottered off to attend to others.

“He’s a _sweet boy_.” Thomas said after he left them. Elizabeth smiles down at him, agreeing. He barely looked like he could hold his head up. His throat was a scratchy chasm, and he was so tempted to shut his eyes, sink into the soft cool grass below,  _and sleep_ for a very long time.

Hugh, and Iris slidled over. After the Reverend saw his Verger safely onto the hospital cart, holding his hand as he took what the man had clutched in his. Hugh was heartened beyond expression to find the man pressed _his own_ bible into Hugh’s sooty hands. _The one with Catherine’s inscription. The one that meant the world to him._ The pages were singed, as was the cover. But his kind, reliable verger had _dragged it through flames_ to return it to him. Putting _that_ before his own safety. Hugh and Iris, had promised to him, they’d visit him in the cottage hospital tomorrow.

Iris helped Hugh walked along, they had their arms about one another. They too rested on the wall near the Duke and Duchess. In the distance, Elizabeth could hear William giving orders to his brothers. And she could see Edith going backwards and forth, fetching pail after pail of water.

The Duchess smiled seeing her niece had a jacket that was not her own over her torso. It was a dark, short jacket. Much alike the one _William_ had been wearing when he left the house. She smiles, watching Edith fixated on her task.

The fire was dying down now. Slowing its voracious nature. The roof caving in, had blocked some of it from spreading further. It left them looking at the _charred shell_ of the place. One end, and side wall was mostly intact. The rest of it had been eaten away by the fire, causing the wall to cave. The large, arched, beautiful stained glass windows, _were gone._ The wall where they once stood proud, now a pile of _rubble_. The pews inside were charred, little better _than ash_ now, and all the decorations were black with soot. It was _a sorry, sad sight_ that they sat peering over. Unable to shake off the terrible situation that had occurred.

“We should _head back_.” Thomas rasps. “There’s nothing more we can do now until it gets light. What little fire is left _can’t thrive_ now.” He explains.

“I’ll instruct Hamish to run back before us, and tell Ethel to put together some soup, tea, and refreshment for the people and tenants who kindly helped, to show our thanks…and all staff should have the _morning off._ The ones who helped may need medical assistance...” Elizabeth weighed in. Thomas smiles weakly at her. _His ever-gorgeous, ever-thoughtful Duchess._

“Hugh. For your safety, I think _it best_ you come back to Chatsworth with us. We can see to a spare room for you to rest in. _I won’t have_ you alone out here. If it’d been the Vicarage that was targeted, not the chapel. I think things would currently be _very different.”_ The Duke informs.

“ _Targeted?”_ Hugh asked in terror. “You _think this was_ deliberate?” He enquires. That thought knocked the already-very-little breath out of him _all over again_.

“I _can’t be sure_. But something seems… _wrong…_ to me.” Thomas explained, narrowing his eyes at the church. Unable to escape his gut feeling. “That fire spread far too quickly, too surely, to be of _an accident_.”

“I’ve _one interjection_ before you lead this conversation down a dark path…” Iris speaks up to her twin. Everyone turned to look at the crumbling chapel.

“What _on earth_ are we going to do about the wedding now? We’ve _two_ weeks, and now, _no venue.”_ She states in sorrow.

No one said _a thing_. They didn’t now how to respond just yet. They all just watched the bustle of their helpers around the skeletal building that used to be the _gleaming, merry_ chapel.

Thomas’s attention was caught by movement in the woods. He turned his head, narrowing his eyes in a quizzical frown as he saw the tails of a scarlet coat disappear into the trees. He blinked, focusing in that direction. An _uneasy_ feeling slid down his spine, and though he was dripping sweat from his foray into the flames, his spine felt as _cold as ice._

_This was no, mere, accident._

 

~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is preoccupying himself with a secret project. Painting the nursery on his own for his and Elizabeth's new-born. He's decided on yellow, as it would suit either a boy or girl. He tried his best drawing a stalk on the wall. but ultimately decided to paint over it, after he decided he didn't wish to give his child nightmares.


	119. Bumps, Sleep and Harmony

It was near _dawn_ when the Chatsworth party eventually returned home. The slanted colours of suns rise bruise the sky in a fantastic array of bursting hues. Orange, peach, and pink splashed across the sky. Elizabeth would have thought it pretty, were it not a sun coming up over the charred skeleton of what little remained of the church. They were a weary bunch. Almost _all reeking_ of smoke, strewn with _ash, and soot_. Refugees of the _tragic crisis_ returning to their place of _sanctity_ within the manor’s fine walls. All those _kind, brave_ souls who so selflessly got out of their beds in the night, and left their homes, and families, to help, try and douse the flames that raged through their beloved chapel, are fed and hydrated from Chatsworth’s kitchen. Ethel had outdone herself, she truly had. There was _a banquet_ awaiting them on their return. Labelling out soup, tea, bread and bread and butter pudding for all those who had given their time to the crisis that had befallen.

It is daybreak by the time everything is settled again. And the house is unusually quiet. The staff were off duty at Thomas’s insistence. The guests return to their beds to slumber, and rest. The last ones to trudge upstairs, are the Duke and Duchess themselves. Both worn thin with the tragedy, and the combination of _so little sleep_. Elizabeth detests how she smells like a bonfire, as does her husband. He too, _much worse off_ than she. Wordlessly, Elizabeth crosses to the powdering room, and draws a bath. Steaming hot, and with plenty of oils to take the smell of smoke away. Thomas undresses, as he watches her disrobe, and then wrap herself up in her bathrobe. He sighs in gratitude to her ever prevailing knack for knowing exactly what he needed. _The bath was meant for him._

He sinks into it, and the savage heat of it _bites_ at his every cell. He grits his teeth and sinks under the waterline for a moment. When he resurfaces, tipping his head back, he leans into the cradle the porcelain offered, feeling the hot water sluice down his back, soaking his neck and sticking his hair to his scalp. He could feel his inky locks dripping, as it curled against the back of his neck, and the heat overtook him. Branding his milky pallor skin a _fierce pink_. He also see’s his delectable wife, perched next to him on a stool pulled up to the lip of the bath, rolling her dressing gown sleeves up past her elbows, reaching for a sponge, and dipping it in the hot water near his ribs. She brings it out, and squeezes the water from it, gently carting it over one cheekbone, getting rid of the rivulets of soot that the water couldn’t wash away. _Thomas could’ve sworn she was an angel in this moment…_

There would have been a time, back months prior, when they were newlyweds. That being _naked_ and _bare_ so brazenly in front of her, and bathing in her presence, would have made him insecure, and reticent. The scant amount of suds in the bathtub barely covered his naked form, and sat where she was, gave her visual access to all of him, _as god intended_ , _naked as the day he was born._ But they had that breed of intimacy now that was _indomitable_.

He no longer felt self conscious about his war wound on his thigh. He knew now the sight of it didn’t sicken or repulse her, as he had been naive enough to fear before they consummated their marriage. _Now_ , he didn’t lay a worry to the fact that he was once reserved about his lanky, lean, proportions that he had been ribbed for as a youth. Those worries grew quiet with the passing time that matured them as a wedded couple. They knew _of every_ pock, mark, scar and imperfection. They knew so much minutia about one another’s bodies that it was _bordering on madness_. He never dreamt as her scantly affianced man, that he would get to know, _so limitlessly_ , the every freckle that adorned his wife. She never imagined she could ever know so much about one human the way she knew her husband.

He peers up over at her, through dark, dripping eyelashes and a face that looked gaunt with tiredness and strife. Though even through the dark circles under his eyes, and his hooded lids, he still, to her, is _the handsomest man_ to _ever_ walk the earth. They don’t speak. There _isn’t a need_ for it. The Duke allows his head to sink back, resting against the edge of the bath, watching as she looked after him. Gently cleaning the dirt off him. Tutting a sigh in irritation when she see’s a small burn near his hipbone. The skin, inflamed, red, and raw, must’ve been stinging like hell and damnation itself. _But he’d never let out a sound._ Elizabeth knew why. He was cursed with upholding a Dukedom in crisis. He had to be seen to order, be in charge, help and sort everything into action in the times of  disasters such as these. Plus, now, _she knew_ with certainty, the tricky aftermath of such a tragedy would be circling round his thoughts _restlessly_. He couldn’t switch himself off from it. He took too much pride in his land, his title, the welfare of his tenants and his relatives to let his brain grow quiet. _It was here_ , behind closed doors, in her company, _and no one else’s,_ that the man’s frail humanity broke through the cracks in his noble exterior.

She liked to think that of it _that here_ , in their bedchamber, with the door shut, and their rooms undisturbed, he could finally set the weight of their world down off his shoulders, if only for a short while. She knew if she didn’t take care after him, he couldn’t be relied upon to take after himself _at all_. Of course, she would lend as much help as she was capable of. _As much as he’d allow her too._ She repeated the motion on his chest now, cleaning the small smears of soot from his shoulders. Rubbing gently to ease the tension that was bound to be in his shoulders by now. It was a long while before she broke the silence, still washing the dirt of this foul day off his body.

“ _Penny_ for them. Kenworthy.” She offers quietly. Her soft voice, like the coo of a dove, breaking the din. The bathroom was a lazy atmosphere. The room tainted a honey gold from the candles she had lit. The shutters were pulled too. And she _would heartily_ insist they both try and get some sleep before tackling their next step. The smell of the bath oils she used are sweet and fragrant in the wet heat of the air. A small sound escapes him, a half-breed of laughter expelled out of his nose in a rush that could _almost_ be read as an amused chuckle.

“I can’t _seem to settle_ on a singular thought.” He lets out. His eyes close and he sighs in grateful pleasure, when she massages the sponge bearing hand down his other tense shoulder. Dissipating for a second, the foul ache in his upper arms that lingered there. Muscles strained with the use he’d put them too this night.

 _“Tell me_ …” She urges gently, setting down the sponge to bob in the water near his tummy. She swipes her thumb down his wet, hot face. Carting away a stubborn smear of dirt. His right hand came up, and his dripping fingers caught her hand, his thumb brushing atop her knuckles, his fingers curling into her kind, soft palm. He looks down at her hands for a silent moment. She was letting him know, this is part and parcel of what she’d married him for. To lessen the strains of the burden of a Dukes coronet. To be his private set of amiable, affectionate ears. To await his troubles. Of course, there were _other such lovely_ aspects of their marriage, the passion, the laughter, the intimacy. Being the woman he could carelessly pour out his hearts troubles too was also among the privileges she enjoyed in being married to him. She was his calm port in the raging storm. The safe, tranquil, place where he could rest his troubled heart and aching soul down and let loose his fraying spirit. _This was the Thomas no one else saw. This was a hurting man needing the succour and utopia that could only be found in his beloved._

“Things could have ended _much differently_ , tonight.” He finally lets out. “If Edith had gone in, had William not stopped her. Had no one heard Hugh’s cries for help. Had I not…” He hesitated. Feeling her soft blue eyes on him in gentle coaxing. He soldiers on. Plucking nervously at her hand. “… _come out_ of that chapel…” He cannot finish his words. She lays her hand over his.  And he meets her eyes once more. They both knew his going in there was reckless. As a father-to-be, and a Duke to boot, the loss of him, Elizabeth could barely stand to comprehend. But his reasons for doing it _far outweighed_ her terror. Their future relative was alive and well because of his risky bravery. _There could be no measure, nor censure for him, upon that factor._

“Then let us be thankful that this nasty incident ended without any loss of life, or serious injury.” She insists softly. She reaches for the fat square of his soap where it sat neatly in its dish on the side dresser. She dunks that in the water, and lathers her hands, gently carting them back through his wet hair. The inky mess of it tamed by the slick of water, dripping down onto his shoulders. He groans a _deep benediction_ of her name when the short of her fingernails reach his scalp. Helping scrub away the attacking acrid fragrance of wood smoke. Replacing it instead, with one of peppermint, sandalwood, and oatmeal.

“Though I’m beyond happy everyone I love is alive and well. I can’t get over the sheer… _Animosity_ of it. It _can’t_ have been _an accident_. From the inside the fire seemed to have spread from the first window up by the altar. A pile of old bibles was the kindling that set the blaze off, _if you can believe it.”_   He speaks aloud to her in thought. He scoffs in degradation to whomever was the culprit. Out there, somewhere. “What kind of a _sociopathic monster_ can bare to set fire to _a chapel?”_   He asks. Unable to get past the astounding thought. The Duchess can tell his was a question that didn’t require an answer.

“That chapel has stood for over _four generations_ of my family. It survived through the English _civil war for pity’s sake_. I cannot conceive a place that I knew and love, is now reduced to ash and rubble. It was meant to be a place of peace. Of God. A place to worship with your fellow man. And now it is dust because one foul person _wished it so…And Hugh_ , that man has been put through a trial worse _than hell itself with Audley_ , and now his church is a smouldering wreck, in what way, is that _fair? Where’s gods plan in that?”_   He rambled.

“And, now. Iris and Hugh _have no place_ to be wed. She married John there. She had _a happy_ memory of that chapel in doing so. And now it is… _gone._ You’d think my poor sister, for all her losses, could atleast be spared the _agony_ of seeing the place she loves and worships in burned to the ground. _Alas.”_ He spits, almost angrily, as she washes away the last of the soap, trying desperately not to get any in his eyes. Elizabeth retracts her hand from the bath, placing his soap back down in silence. He pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning, trying to ease away his thoughts. Thoughts that squirmed and fidgeted busy in his head like maggots on rotting meat.

“ _Forgive me_ , darling.” He sighs dispiritedly after a second. “I do not mean to be _so…so curt_.” He explains. Reaching for her hand and raising it to his wet lips to kiss it in apology.

“I think, _dear heart,_ if a man cannot be curt after seeing his family church burnt to the ground, then _when,_ is he able?” She asks. Tucking a strand of hair back off his face. He tilts his head back and looks lovingly at her.

“You’re worthy of _canonization, you know.”_   He flatters to her, his scorching blue eyes lidded as he gazed up, his wet hand reaches to cup her cheek. But before it can. She grasps it. And presses a kiss to his almost pruning fingertips. Smelling the fine scent of soap on his clean skin. She smiles that _sweet, rosebud smile_ , at his flattery.

“I hate to add more kindling to your already _blazing thoughts_. But, what are we to do about Iris and Hugh’s wedding?” She asked him. “I suppose that there _is every possibility_ that they could be wed from Hampshire, in Hugh’s families church… _but_ …” She trailed off, sponge in hand once more, she tackles his cleaning over his ribs and belly now.

“But, that’s not what _either of them_ currently wish.” Thomas finished for her. “We’ll know more in inspecting the ruin, _later._ ” He offers, bleakly. “But I cannot promise good news on that front just yet. Though, _lord knows_ , I wish too.” He adds. “They both deserve that much. But fate hasn’t _seen fit to_ spare them.”

“One step at a time.” She supposes. “ _Logically_ , I think the next step needs to involve _some sleep_ for the pair of us. Allow us the _small mercy_ of tackling this horrid calamity with a level head.” She relents. Scrubbing at a stubborn stain of soot on his forearm. Holding out his hand, spreading it wide into hers, she can see that some of the muck had worked its way into the large oval of his pale fingernails. She reaches for the nail brush, and carefully scrubs it away. His hands, which earlier, were dry and cracked, were all the better for her washing them, cleaning them and treating them.

“You’ll meet _no argument_ from me, my lady. I’m ready to sleep like the dead.” He surmises. Dropping his head back to rest on the lip of the bath. His eyes closing to rest. Elizabeth sneaks a glance up at him. His skin, usually the colour of cold marble, was now bright, shining and pink. His cheeks flushed, aswell as his chest, up to his collarbone. Her cheeks too, warm a little, seeing him all rosy and aglow. It thrills her a little, reminding her of their more intimate times that caused him to grow reddened and breathless. Plus, with her hormones the way they were, it sends an _alluring thrill_ to shoot through her in a flutter when she realises how attractive he looked in this pure, innermost moment. She suspected that the second reason her cheeks flush hot to her hairline, was that she had now come to washing the lean trunks of his thighs. She continued in her task, wringing out the sponge, lathering it, and repeating the motion as many times as needed. Scouring his skin as she worked, unaffected by the fact she was coming to the _more private climes_ of his body.

Thomas’ eyes sprung open when he felt her lithe hands touch his thigh, scooping under his leg, bringing it out from beneath the soapy surface of the water to wash him better. His gut clenches and he too has to remind himself that now was _not the time_ for an intimate moment. He was dog tired, and she looked _just as_ wrung through as he did. She finished one leg, and moved to the other, leaning over the rim of the bath, a stray curl of red hair wandered past her shoulder, and almost trailed in the water, he scooped it back, touching her gently, securing it back behind her ear. His eyes admiring the delectable column of her neck, jaw and chin as she concentrated on him. He chuckles, ticklish, when she rubs the bottom of his feet, washing even them too. She smiles at him once she is finished with her task. “You’ll _do_.” She beams. Leaning over to kiss his wet mouth. Before turning back around, and setting the sponge and soap back down where they belonged on the side dresser. She stands, and reaches for a nearby cloth to dry her hands. She has her back to him as she hears him heave himself out. The heavy gush of water pattering back down to the bath is all she can hear as she begins to rake her silver comb through her knotted hair. She can hear him move about, the scrape of towel on skin as he dried himself, and he too, then cocoons himself in his bathrobe.

It comes as _no great surprise_ to her when she feels his hands wrap around her middle from behind, and his sturdy body presses into hers as his mouth nests in her hair and kisses there, scooping it out of his way to better look upon their reflections in the mirror. She had washed and dried her hair with the basin and jug in the far corner. It was still slightly damp to the touch. He knows it would dry into that coiled coppery mess of curls he adored seeing. It made her _look sumptuously wild_ , to his eyes. He was warm, and his scent is fresh and clean. And he was currently kissing the side of her exposed neck. She hums in bliss, raking the brush through her drying hair. He had harshly rubbed the towel across his own locks, and now they are spiked and damp in inky disarray.

“To bed, _wife?”_ He asks her. Nuzzling into her neck. Content to sleep standing there, if necessary. She puts down her brush and twists around in his arms. Tantalised with the glow of his hot skin pressed tightly to her, with only thin layers or robes separating them. Temptation started to make itself known to the both of them. Desire growing. He tries not to moan but is unsuccessful in that venture. Her hot, pale skin always delighted him to be so near. His lusting hands longingly slip down to grab at the rounded flesh of her thighs, skimming down past her hips. Her head tips back to his chest. Resting there as she too felt the same stirrings in her ardour, flaring outwards from her belly for this man.

“To bed.” She answers him. Granting him a slow kiss, her fingers slipping through his damp, cooling hair. “To _sleep.”_ She feels she needs to elucidate when she pulls away, her eyes warm, but serious. His smile was one alike cunning sly foxes in old fables. He nods. But quickly scoops her up into his arms. Walking them through out of the heated air of the powder room, to their boudoir. When he deposits her on the floor again. He speaks.

“I have, however, strict _conditions.”_ He begins. Elizabeth feels herself laugh. His big hands fumble for the sash of her gown and he looks down to her slight waist as he throws it open. “We sleep…” He starts. Looking at their mussed bed behind her. “But we _, neither_ of us, wear _a stitch.”_   He rasps, throwing her gown open, quickly doing the same with his own so both their shrouds of fabric mingle in a crumpled pool at their feet. He pulls her waist to fully press her bare body into his, wrapping his arms around this treasure of a woman,

She found herself smiling a wide giddy smile at his irresistible charms. And she speaks those two words that she oft used in her marriage. Mostly when she was so dizzyingly happy, it made her swoon. “ _Yes_ , Thomas.” She beams. In that moment, her amused smile was the brightest thing he’d ever seen. And even though they were both worn through with the need for sleep. She should learn that her desire for this man _could never_ be quashed, no matter the mood.

Elizabeth turns away from him, and leans over to untuck the covers from their mussed state, lifting them up to slide in between. Letting out a decidedly feminine squeak when she feels his wide hand pinch her bottom as she did. She clambers onto the bed, and he follows, rolling her body into his arms. Nestling into a comfy position. His lips on her neck, her delightful bottom tucked into his groin, and his right arm crossed over her to soothingly rub her taut belly. And the slumbering babe within. Only, as it turns out, the Kenworthy heir was feeling restless today, too.

Elizabeth moaned a low, gasping sound, her hand flying to her belly too, joining near his. Thomas froze instantly. He felt her skin _wriggled,_ bumped _so gently_ from the inside by his babe. He leaned closer, up on his elbows, aghast.

“Was _that?!”_ He asked, the beginnings of a delighted smile splitting his lips. Elizabeth was quiet, but she too grinning. The sensation was a thoroughly odd one. She’d felt it move before, but never so plainly. She nodded, bursting into unbelievable laughter.

She nods, laughing as she feels it again. If she had to liken it to something, it was like the tentative niggle of a fish tugging at a fishing line. A wriggling little tug, and then it was gone again. “It was. _Oh_ ,” She moaned as it flickered again. “Clearly our little one _doesn’t want sleep_ as we do.” She chuckles. Thomas now used both hands to gently paw at her belly. Covering the _entirety_ of it, she noted. He didn’t want to _miss a thing._ She took his hand and placed it off to the side, where, again, her flesh rolled from the tiny thing within signalling it’s movement. He chuckled into her ear, his hot breath disturbing her hair.

“That’s my lemon..” He grumbled softly, pressing a kiss into her ear. He was far too giddy about this to sleep just yet. His hands stayed where they were, smoothing lovingly over her skin.

“I think we have a wriggle-puss on our hands…” Thomas intones into his wife’s ear. Elizabeth lets out a clipped, short bark of laughter. “That’ll be after your side then, You can scarce sit still for _two minutes_ together.” She admonished. He bumped his groin into hers by way of teasing punishment.

“Watch it. Or I’ll order them _to wriggle_ on command…” He menaces. As he spoke, the deep tendre of his voice, rumbling it’s usual husk in the air. The wriggling began to double in it’s efforts. Elizabeth lets out another giddy laugh. She turned back to look over her shoulder at him then.

“I think it moves when it hears your voice, _darling_ …” She beams. He shuffles out from behind her, and asserts himself between her knees. His elbows either side of her hips, his torso pressing down into her navel. Putting aside the fact she was completely naked above him, as the sheets now pooled at his lower back, leaving her _quite bare_ without their cover. _He’d come to that in a minute_. For now, he slides his hands over her, and presses his lips to kiss her abdomen.

“I’m reliably informed by your _gorgeous mother_ that you like the sound of my voice, _little one? Hmm?”_ He begins, feeling the skin under his hands flutter and flicker because of his speech. He smiles. Enraptured.

“Well. If _this is_ the case, then I will not shut up _night nor day_ for want of feeling you kick under my palms. I have a feeling when we meet you, you’ll be a lively little thing. And of course, I’ll be your _favourite parent. That,_ has already been safely ascertained by your very good self.” He safely exclaims. Elizabeth tuts above him,

“Try not _to hog_ our firstborn, _if you please_ …” She smiles teasingly down at him. He looks up, kissing her navel again. His eyes shutting, his lips were still on her skin as he peered up at her, she stretched her tired legs out either side of him. A warm, friendly palm softly caresses her thigh.

“I’m rather remiss of experience when it comes to _conversing_ with foetuses…” Thomas tells her. His lashes flutter as he nuzzles his mouth into her belly. “Your mothers getting incensed with me already. _Little one_. I fear I may not make _it alive_ to your birthday.” He speaks lowly to the bump.

“Rub my swollen feet more often, and _we’ll see._ I may _spare you_ …” She laughs. Curling into her pillow and resting her eyes. His newfound energy she attributed to the excitement of their child kicking for the first time.

“Are you _hearing this?”_ Thomas directs to the belly. “Such dissention in _my own bed_. I may have to administer _punishments._.” He ponders to lemon. His warm fingers rubbing nicely over her hipbone. His eyes gleam naughtily up at her as he presses an open mouthed kiss near her belly button.

 _“Oh_ , _I’m trembling_ in my boots for fear of you.” She quips sarcastically. A lazy smile curling at her mouth.

“I keep a _very strict_ household so you see.” He tells the baby. “The staff too _tremble_ in my powerful presence.” He japes in a proud, puffed peacock-sort-of-tone. He hears his wife snort, muttering an, _‘As if.’_  under her breath.

“My family are doubtless _wary_ of my presence…” He adds.

“…Like the time _your five year old niece_ , ordered you to be her _human pony_ for the day and you acquiesced almost _instantly_ to her request. _My, what a reign of terror.”_ She smiles sarccily.

“ _Edith then_ , feels the _wrath_ of my mighty station..” He relents. _Again, not speaking to her, but to the bump._

“What about when she scolded you for not returning one of her books in a timely fashion by its due date. _You looked thoroughly like a hurt puppy for a solid ten minutes.”_ She interjects. Thomas grit his teeth. He glared up at his resting spouse.

“We’ll talk _again soon, little one._ Right now. I must do something about the _perfidy_ of my lady love…” He whispers, kissing and stroking one last time, before crawling further up over her body. Watching her in her rest. His torso now aligned with hers. Her hooded blue eyes open and take in his new position. His chest came low to press into her own. A cruel, amused smile is centre stage on his lips.

“I am most _seriously, displeased._ ” He warns. Growling a smile into her kiss. _Oh, that didn’t bode well at all, she thinks._

~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little do they know, but Chatsworth is shortly to receive a visit from a very surprising figure. Having heard of the woes of the chapel burning down. This person makes swift tracks to Derbyshire to help sort it out. After all, who would do less for an old beau?


End file.
